


Sweet Surrender

by mktellstales



Series: Archived Work: 2013-2015 [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mj's Stories, Parentlock, Requited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love Cannot be measured by how long you wait.<br/>It's about how well you understand why you are waiting.</p><p> </p><p>A look into the future of John and Sherlock. Though, the events of Season 3 will have happened a long time ago in this timeline, they did still happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So,this story happened because I have been posting another that is quite intense and causes a lot of pain toward the characters. I realized as I would finish a chapter of that, I would need something light and happy, and thus this happened! There's still some angst here and there, but it's mostly just some nice, fluffy stuff :)
> 
> Enjoy!  
> Review!  
> Come back for the rest!
> 
> I hope to update every 3 or 4 days. A great deal of it is written, but needs to be revised and such, and I am still working on one more story as well.

 

**Part One**

 

John Watson never resented Beatrice, the little girl who shared half of his generic material, but he did resent the woman she shared the other half with. The woman whom he didn't truly know, whose love he could never quite trust through all the lies. But he had tried. To his credit John had fucking tried. He scheduled appointments with the marriage counselor and never missed a single session, he visited his own therapist, Ella, an extra day a week despite never having liked to see her in the first place. Mary and John talked, and they screamed, and she threw shoes at his head, and he tore apart their bedding. Sometimes, on a good night, they wept and then held each other until the sun came up, whispering apologies and promises that neither one of them was sure they meant.  
  
But it wasn't enough.  
  
They separated. John moved back to Baker Street; his chair was always waiting there for him. Sherlock was always waiting there for him. He fell back into his old life, into his old feelings. Slipping into the cracks of that mish mashed flat was like slipping back into his soul; lost when his best friend had died just before his eyes, and never really found again even when he came back. Everything was right that side of London. Everything was right within those toxic, chaotic walls.  
  
When the end finally came for John and Mary it wasn't a surprise. Leaving _her_ wasn't difficult- he had been in the process of leaving her for years, but leaving Bea- his little girl was the hardest thing he had ever done. It wasn't abandonment, but the courts had decided that the woman Mary had been (A.G.R.A) no longer mattered against the woman who she became (Mary Elizabeth Watson). And that John, part time doctor, part time crime solver, full time danger addict, didn't add up to a responsible, fit parent, and that wasn't even mentioning the high-functioning sociopath he lived with. So, Mary retained full custody while John receded to the background- an every other weekend father.  
  
When she was small it was easy. Bea cried when Mary left, but was quickly distracted by John's keys and the cooing promise of a walk in the park (though Sherlock admitted affection and protection of the littlest Watson, John found it best to keep her or of the flat-out of his way- for as long as he could.). As she got older the cries lasted longer, truthfully they were more like screams, and the promises held very little weight. She had questions that John didn't know how to answer, or didn't want to answer.  
  
John did the best he could to keep her happy; the petting zoo, the aquarium, ice cream, dinner at the fancy restaurants they passed on their walks through London, and an always regrettable game of Cluedo with Sherlock. By the time Bea would begin to warm up, begin to relax and enjoy herself it would be time for her to return to her mother, to her real life rather the interruption that was her time with John.  
  
"Are you sure it's not a problem?"

John sighed loudly out of irritation for having to answer this question for the fifth time in only three days. He leaned his arm against the window of his bedroom and then leaned his head against his arm and watched the quiet alley below.  
  
"Mary, she is my daughter. It is never going to be a problem."  
  
"I know, but this is more than a weekend John, more than those three weeks you had last year-I honestly don't know how long I'll be away. You haven't spent this much time with her at once since before you moved out- that was eleven years ago."  
  
John clenched his fists at his side, glad that Mary was on the phone rather than in front of him to see his anger flare up. He was supposed to have been working on that. "I know. Mary, we're going to be fine."  
  
"And Sherlock?"  
  
"He won’t admit it to anyone’s face, but Sherlock adores Bea."  
  
"I wasn't questioning his adoration."  
  
"We've discussed a few things about behaving around a thirteen year old rather than behaving like the five year old he usually does."  
  
Mary managed to laugh at that which in turn caused John to let his guard down slightly enough to laugh with her.  
  
"How are you two by the way?"  
  
"I am fine and Sherlock is fine. Separately, we are both fine."  
  
Mary laughed again, this time a little bitter, and sad, "what makes him so special that he can be forgiven and I can't? That you are actually proud to know him, but wish you had never met me?"  
  
It was her usual question, asked nearly every time she and John speak for longer than five minutes, which truthfully wasn’t very often. But each time she asks John declines to answer. He was still angry at her; angry with her for being who she turned out to be. Maybe it was because the woman Mary considered to be her aunt, to be the only real family she had, was dying somewhere in America or maybe it was because he was just tired of hearing her ask, John took in a deep breath, and answered her.  
  
"First off it helps that I'm not married to Sherlock, so I don't have nearly the same expectations of him as I had of you. But more importantly, Sherlock doesn't know any better, whereas you should have. And anything he has said or done done to truly hurt or disappoint me was, in the end, selfless. You hurt me because you didn't want to hurt yourself."  
  
"John I-"  
  
"That's enough Mary. I answered your question. I'm getting off from work early tomorrow, so I'll be home when you drop Bea off."  
  
"John..."  
  
John's fists were clenching again, hard enough for his nails to possibly be drawing blood in the palms of his hands," I said that's enough. I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
John quickly hung up and tossed his mobile into the unmade bed. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger against his temples. Downstairs he could hear Sherlock making some kind of racket, and though it was loud, and sounded as if he might have (unsuprisingly) broken a thing or two, it comforted John. Sherlock, whether he knew it or not had always been comforting John since the moment they had met.  
  
Sherlock fanned John's addiction just when the flames were nearly out. He invited John into his flat, into his life not because he needed someone to pay the other half of the rent (though, he truly did need that), but because he wanted him there, because the beautiful, intricate mind that was Sherlock Holmes found something interesting the worn down ex-soldier that John had become. He still found something interesting there.  
  
They had fallen in love in with each other from the very first moment they laid eyes on each other underneath the harsh fluorescent light of the St. Bart’s lab. Whether or not they would admit it, there was no way that they could deny deny it either. They both needed each other to breathe, to function, and to survive. It would be easy to say that together, they weren’t broken men anymore; but they would always be broken; just a little more put together as long as one was with the other. That's why John could forgive him for leaving endless dirty mugs in the sink, for staining their dining room table with chemicals, and actually burning a hole in the wood with a knocked over flask of acid. John could forgive Sherlock for never picking up after himself, for hacking into John's laptop no matter how many times he was asked not to. John could forgive him for being dead when he was supposed to be alive, and he could forgive Sherlock for being alive when he was supposed to dead.

  
  
John gathered his thoughts enough to leave his bedroom for the first time that morning (nearly afternoon now) and head downstairs. He stopped short in his tracks on his way to the sink to rinse out his favorite mug when he saw Sherlock bent into the open door of the refrigerator.  
  
"Sherlock, are you cleaning out the fridge?"  
  
"Your powers of observation never case to astound me, John."  
  
"No need to be snappy. I'm just a bit in shock is all."  
  
"Yesterday, the same day you lectured me in how I should and should not act around your daughter, you also told me that our fridge was beyond toxic'."  
  
John _had_ opened the metal doors looking for milk the day before to put into his tea when he noticed that the shelves were a little more packed with un-labeled hazardous material than usual, more than likely because Sherlock had been between cases, and had been trying to occupy his time with something a bit more interesting than the muggings and cheating spouses. He mentioned to Sherlock his unhappiness of the state of their fridge in his usual manner- a violent slam of the door and a quiet sigh of Sherlock’s name between his lips.  
  
Since, John had been expecting to be spending his afternoon off cleaning it out and washing the offending dishes. Asking Sherlock to do it had never even crossed his mind.  
  
"I've binned what I don't need anymore, anything bio hazardous I will bring to Bart’s. I’ve labeled the things I need still in sealed containers, and moved them to the top shelf. You won't even be able to reach them."  
  
Sherlock turned and grinned to John, earning him an affectionate draw of John's middle finger.  
  
"I finished all of my experiments involving the body parts last night, so I will properly dispose of those as well. I'm not clearing off the table, and I'm not doing the shopping. But I think it should be safe enough for Beatrice now."  
  
John was amazed, he was stunned. His mouth hung slightly open while he stared at Sherlock, mentally repeating to himself everything Sherlock just told him.  
  
"John?"  
  
It took John a moment to snap out of his trance- he truly shouldn't be _that_ surprised by Sherlock doing what he did, but then again it was Sherlock; how could he not be surprised?  
  
"I truly was thinking about my _own_ safety last night after I found a strange slime on the milk carton, but thank you Sherlock. This is-this is good."  
  
John wanted to kiss him in that moment. There had been a lot of moments in all the years they’d been together that John wanted to kiss him, and yes, recently, the two of them alone in the flat together again, there had been moments when he acted upon that very basest of wants, or rather there had been moments when Sherlock acted upon his want, and John didn't deny him. But they didn’t discuss it only get on with their daily lives until it happened again, because it always happened again.  
  
Sherlock looked up from the floor where he was sitting; scrubbing god only knows what from the bottom shelf. He smiled at John like a child who had just received praise from his parent. It was quick and fleeting, and then Sherlock was back to his task before John could work up the courage to bend to his level and press Sherlock's lips against his own. He settled for carding his fingers through Sherlock's curls instead. Sherlock leaned into the touch, momentarily dropping his cloth against the glass.  
  
John reluctantly pulled his hands away when Sherlock escaped a moan that seemed to catch him by suspire as well by the way he jerked his head up from where it was nearly resting against John’s thigh. John quickly started to dig in the sink for the mug, and Sherlock continued scrubbing.  
  
"I suppose I'm out to do the shopping then. Are you going to do these up or should I expect that when I get home?"  
  
"Am I that terrible to live with?"  
  
"Sorry?"  
  
"You nearly had an aneurysm upon seeing me clean the fridge, and now you question my ability to wash our dishes?"  
  
John finished washing his mug, and clicked on the kettle. He leaned the small of his back against the counter while he waited for the water to boil. He considered how he wanted to answer Sherlock for a moment, not really in the mood to start a row with him.  
  
"Of course not Sherlock. You are maddening, incredibly insufferable, and more than a bit irritating, but you are not terrible. I never would have come back if that were the case, and I never would have stayed either."  
  
"Yes, well, there really was no place else for you to go."  
  
Egotistical bastard.  
  
The kettle boiled and John poured the steaming liquid over his tea bag. As it steeped, clear liquid turning to brown, he regarded Sherlock. He regarded what Sherlock had said. John could have gone anywhere after the divorce; he probably should have gone somewhere else- a nice flat where Beatrice could have a room of her own, painted pink or green or whatever color she wanted, with her drawings hung up on the walls in gold frames. John would have his coffee at the breakfast table, free of decades old science equipment, and half open bottles of chemicals. He could have had that, but that wouldn't have been home.  
  
"No Sherlock, there wasn't-there isn't anyplace else for me to go."  
  
Sherlock smiled at him, satisfied with John's agreement, and John felt the need to kiss Sherlock again. It seemed he couldn’t go more than fifteen seconds these days without that particular want creeping up inside of him.  
  
"Shopping!" John burst out, his lips finding distraction around the rim of his mug.  
  
Sherlock slipped the last pair of yellow gloves underneath the kitchen sink over his hands, and started humming a tune John was certain he had heard Sherlock fiddling around with on the violin the night before. Obviously Sherlock had checked himself out of their conversation- probably better that he has. John finished his tea, and left to start his day with a hot, hot shower.

When John came back downstairs, finishing up the last of the buttons on his shirt, and starting another kettle for tea, because the older he got the more tea he seemed to need to consume, Sherlock was done with the fridge and the dishes, and sat at the table. John took a quick, curious glance to the page Sherlock had open on his laptop; images of couches and chairs and end tables flickered across the screen.  
  
"You were serious about the furniture thing then?" John asked, alluding back to a conversation they had had a few days ago where Sherlock lamely announced he wanted to get new furniture and John replied with a non-committal sigh.  
  
"Yes, I was serious, why wouldn't I have been serious?"  
  
"So, you're going to get rid of all the furniture?"

Sherlock brought his fingers up to the bridge of his nose on instinct.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Even my chair?" John asked, leaving the kitchen, and coming up to the red, faded chair. He gently soothed his hand across the rounded back, feeling where the threads had given way to age and time.  
  
"Yes, even your chair. All of this needed to be thrown out long before I even came into possession of it. Why are you being so sentimental over a piece of furniture?"  
  
"Because it isn't just a piece of furniture to me. This chair is where I sit after a long day at the surgery, where I read my paper, and drink my tea and eat my toast. It’s where I've collapsed after chasing criminals around London with you. It's the first thing Bea ever used to stand herself up. It's where I watch you play the violin in the window." John's voice softened before he continued, and he turned to see Sherlock leaning against the entry to the kitchen. "This chair was here when I needed it most, from the very first time I sat down in it to when I came back to it after a few years away. So, that is why I'm being sentimental over a piece of furniture Sherlock, because some of the better years of my life exist because of its own existence in this flat."  
  
Sherlock regarded John for a few silent moments before he spoke, calm and quiet, "it's still just a chair, and I'm still throwing it out with the rest."  
  
John deflated a little. He knew it was silly to be so attached to a chair, and he knew that Sherlock wouldn't understand why. John patted it once again before he picked up his keys and wallet from the table beside it.  
  
"Right. I'm sure whatever you pick in its place will be lovely. I'm off to the shop now. Do you want anything special?"  
  
"Some of those lemon biscuits you bought on accident last time. They were quite good."  
  
"Alright. I'll bring you back some of those."  
  
John slipped on his coat and went down the stairs. He stopped for a second to just look at the door where Mrs. Hudson used to live. No one lived there now; just as no one lived in the basement flat either. When the building had been left to Sherlock and John after her death, they managed to pay up the lease, and since Sherlock would have been the world's worst landlord, and neither of them could imagine anyone living downstairs from them other than Mrs. Hudson, they just left the rooms empty, and kept the building to themselves.  
  
It wasn't quite cold out, but John could feel a chill and an oncoming rain storm. He only hoped he could get the shopping done and get home before it hit. He turned the corner at the end of Baker Street and walked another block more until he came to the same shop he had been visiting year after year. He went inside, headed to the fruits and veggies first, squeezing and inspecting those that warranted it. He tried not to think about the chair as he picked up items here and there, keeping a look out for the biscuits Sherlock had asked for. It really was just a chair; it wasn't even his to stake any real claim to. It was just the chair that Sherlock spent less time in, so John spent his time there instead.  
  
He found the biscuits and popped them into the basket.  
  
New furniture would be just fine he thought to himself. He and Sherlock were older, yes, but they were by no means old, and the furniture was, and it needed to go to allow something new to take its place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so I had some time to revise chapter 2, and it was ready for posting sooner than I anticipated.  
> Don't expect Chapter 3 for a few more days however. I have a lot of work to do on that one! And I'd like to get a chapter of AS up in the next few days as well.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> Review!  
> Come back for more!

 

 

 

"Hey dad." Beatrice said, drawing herself into the bottom foyer after Mary, and carrying a duffel bag over both of her shoulders.  
  
"Hi Bea." John said it softly, almost a little unsure of himself. As confident as he was on the phone with Mary the day before, he truly was rather insecure around his daughter-has been since she stopped being ten years old.  
  
"Is Sherlock home?" She asked  
  
"Uh, yea, he is." John answered her.  
  
Bea smiled wide, her eyes lighting up in excitement, and rand passed John bound up the stairs, her bags slowing her down only a little.  
  
"If he's in his room, knock!" John called as she neared the top of the landing.  
  
John turned back to Mary. She was loaded down with bags as well; who knew thirteen year old girl needed so much stuff? He nervously dug his hands into the pocket of his jeans.  
  
"Everyone is always more excited to see Sherlock than they are too see me." He said with amusement in his voice, and maybe, just maybe a little bit of resentment.  
  
"I'm glad to see you John." Mary said, quite, but truly sincere none the less.  
  
"I know you are."  
  
They were quiet for a few moments; neither of them quite sure what to say to the other. It was difficult for John to see her, still after all these years, and she only made it more dofficult by so obviously wearing her pain for him to see.  
  
"Right” Mary started, finally breaking the silence. “so, on Thursday and Saturday night's she has ballet from six to eight. I'm usually at work, so she takes the bus there and Michael drops her home. You can work out however you want to do it though."  
  
"Who's Michael?"  
  
"Tess's dad."  
  
John mentally pulled up what little knowledge he had of Bea’s friends. He thinks that Tess was the one with the long black hair at her birthday party a few months ago who kept asking John if there was anything she could help him with.  
  
"She has a boyfriend too."  
  
"A what?" John shook his head, immediately brought out of his thoughts.  
  
"Well, as much as you can have a boyfriend at thirteen. His name is Ian, and he's very sweet."

“I’ve been a thirteen year old boy’ we’re never sweet.”

Mary laughed, “I’m sure you were a very nice boy, John.”

“Yea, okay, I really was.”

They both laughed, and let it taper back off into silence. Mary handed John the rest of Bea’s bags and slung her slipping purse back over her shoulder.  
  
"Good. Well, I should go.” She said  
  
"Do you want to go up and say goodbye?"  
  
"No. I said goodbye to her outside. If I go up there, I'll never leave."

“Too right. Have a safe flight; call when you land.”

“I will.”

They didn’t hug, but John held the door open for his ex-wife and watched her get back into the taxi that had brought her there. He closed the door once she was around the corner, picked up the bags left on the floor and brought them upstairs where he found Sherlock sitting at the desk in the living room and Bea crouched over his right shoulder.  
  
"Sherlock, I swear if you are showing her pictures from last week's crime scene-"  
  
"No, this is much more horrifying."  
  
John set Bea’s things down on the couch and hovered over Sherlock's other shoulder. On the screen was a group of five, teenaged boys, dancing, or what John thought was supposed to be dancing, but looked more like twitching, on a deserted beach.  
  
"It's not horrifying, it's music." Bea scoffed into Sherlock's ear.  
  
"In what world is this considered music?"  
  
"My world."  
  
John laughed and tugged Bea away from Sherlock and the offending music.  
  
"Are you hungry love?"  
  
April shrugged her shoulders. John tried the other child in the room  
  
"Sherlock are you hungry?"  
  
Sherlock, his fingers typing furiously at his laptop, a relaxing piano piece humming through the speakers, shrugged his shoulders as well.  
  
"Right. Well, if I were to order some take away would either of you eat it?"  
  
"Indian?" Bea asked  
  
"If that's what you'd like. Sherlock is that acceptable?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged again, and John shook his head at himself, wondering why he was even bothering to ask Sherlock in the first place. He didn't think about how having Bea in the flat meant he would be caring for two children. He reached for his mobile on the table, and picked Bea’s things back up to be drug upstairs to his bedroom-her bedroom for the next few weeks.  
  
"You should help your father." Sherlock said absently to Bea  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because your case is heavy, and his shoulder is bothering him today."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Bea jumped from where she had just made herself comfortable on the couch with a loose magazine sitting on the coffee table and ran to catch John just as he reached the landing.  
  
"I can take one.” She said, pulling a bag down from his shoulder.  
  
"Thank you."

 

 

John helped Bea unpack her things into the two dresser drawers he had emptied, and nearly attacked her bags in the wardrobe floor. When they finished, they headed back to the living room.  
  
"I ordered us Indian. You just have to pop down to the restaurant on the corner in about a half an hour."  
  
"I have to go?" John asked.  
  
"I ordered it; you pick it up."  
  
"And how does it work when I order that I still have to pick it up?"  
  
"I don't make the rules." Sherlock said.  
  
John laughed, "apparently you do."

They settled down for a little while until John had to leave to pick up their dinner. When he returned with the bags of hot food the table in the dining room had been somewhat cleaned off, and a place set for each of them. John took out the plastic containers and set them down. They took their seats and dished up.  
  
"So, your mum said you're joining an archaeological dig next summer. How did that come about?" John asked, trying to start conversation.  
  
"Tess's dad is an archaeologist, and he heard that I was interested in studying, so he said I could join his team on their next dig in Glasgow."  
  
"Glasgow? Is mum going with you?"  
  
Bea shrugged, "We haven't figured it all out yet. There's still an entire year before then."  
  
"I find archeology to be one of the more admirable of the social sciences." Sherlock said, almost wistfully.  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"There's no denying the chemistry and the real science that goes on in an archaeologists lab. They aren't just didn't things up and making the best guess; they spend a great deal of time trying to prove themselves wrong to prove themselves right, much like a real scientist. And it truly is helpful to paint a pattern of modern human kind by understanding the human kind of the past."  
  
"You're just saying that because I want to be an archaeologist." Bea said to Sherlock, taking a bit of her masala.  
  
"I would never try to placate you."  
  
"It's true; he wouldn't."

Bea rolled her eyes, and took another bite.

“Your mum also told me that you have a boyfriend?”

John’s inquiry caused Bea to drop her fork on her plate quite loudly, and roll her eyes yet again; she got it from her mother.

“Ian is just a friend who happens to be a boy.”

“A boy that you like?” John asked.

Bea bit the inside of her lip, as if the pain would stop her cheeks from burning the crimson she felt rising up inside, “Maybe.” She answered.

“It’s fine if you do. I think I had my first girlfriend when I was 13.”

“Would it be alright if he came over tomorrw night to watch a movie or something?” she asked, hesitantly.

“It’s my pub night, but if Sherlock is okay with keeoing an eye on the two of you for a little while, I don’t see why that would be a problem. Do you Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up from his mobile; he had been texting through the entirety of their dinner, but he had been paying a little more than half attention to the two of them, so John didn’t say anything about it.

“What? Yes, that would be fine.” He answered quickly, and going back to his messages.  
  
They finished dinner, watched the news and a terrible, mind numbing late show that left Sherlock yelling the entire time, and then John's mobile rang. It was nearly one in the morning.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Oh. I really wasn't expecting you to be awake." Mary said on the other end. "I was just going to leave you a message."  
  
"We sort of lost track of time playing Monopoly."  
  
Mary laughed, "Monopoly?"  
  
"Sherlock isn't allowed to play Cluedo anymore, and Monopoly is the only other board game we own. Did you want to talk to Bea before she goes up to bed?"  
  
"Yes, thank you."  
  
John handed Bea the phone and she took it excitedly through the kitchen and up the stairs.  John laughed to himself and started to help Sherlock pick up the game.  
  
"I won." Sherlock said  
  
"I'm sure you did Sherlock. You always win."  
  
"Which makes me question why we even bother to play in the first place.  
  
"Because it's fun."  
  
"Says you."  
  
John laughed at Sherlock and took the game from him to bring back out to the closet on the other side of their door in the foyer. He grabbed a small, black medical kit from the kitchen counter and headed back up the stairs where Bea was just getting off the phone with Mary and crawling into bed.

"You and mom are never going to get back together are you?" Bea asked, snuggling down into the freshly laundered bedclothes.   
  
"Bea..."  
  
"I don't want you to" she amended quickly, "I mean, of course I wouldn't object to it, but I'm okay with things the way they are now, I just-sometimes mum looks so sad, and just now on the phone when she asked about you....I think that maybe she still loves you."

John sat down on the edge of the bed, and pushed her hair away from her forehead.  
  
"She does, and I still love her in a way, but she knows that we're better off apart."  
  
"Is it because you love Sherlock rather than her that keeps her so sad?"  
  
"Did she tell you that I love him?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I see."  
  
"Well, is it?"  
  
"What it is is really none of your business. Now, let's do this jab so you can get to sleep."

John reached to the bed side table where he had the prepared syringe waiting. Bea reluctantly pushed back the duvet and the sheets to expose her knee. John, a doctor whether he was home, at work, in the field, swiped a small alcohol pad against Bea’s skin. She braced for the small prick that she knew was coming and the cold, yet burning sensation that followed. When John was done he placed a calming finger over the injection spot for a few seconds.  
  
"It's still alright that Ian comes over tomorrow right?"  
  
"Of course. Get some sleep now.” John kissed her forehead and turned out the light.  
  


John is more than ready to slide into the stretched, and scratched leather of the couch and cover himself up with that old, tattered blanket that neither of them is sure about its procurement, for the last time. But when he came down the stairs and crossed the kitchen, tossing the syringe into the red box on the counter on his way, into the lounge, Sherlock was sitting on one end, his legs and feet curled neatly underneath each other; laptop perched between his thighs and knees.  
  
"I thought I heard you go to bed."  
  
"Just went to get my back up charger."  
  
"Oh."  
  
John rubbed his hand against the back of his neck, and stood awkwardly in front of Sherlock for a while.   
  
"Something you need?"  
  
"Well, I'm pretty damn knackered, and the rain is making my shoulder my ache, so I thought I would go to bed."  
  
"Sounds like a good idea."  
  
"I was going to sleep on the couch."  
  
"Sleep in my bed-I'm in the middle of editing a paper."  
  
"You're not editing someone's publication and then emailing it to them with your corrections again, are you?"  
  
"Of course not; I'm helping out a friend."  
  
John quirked up his eyebrows, "friend?"  
  
"Yes, you aren't the only one I have you know?"  
  
"I used to be."  
  
"Ages ago."  
  
Sherlock glanced up from the laptop to send John a quick, cheeky grin. John found that he had been spending the better part of his life waiting for that smile, or any genuine flicker of emotion from Sherlock. And each time he was awarded with one he felt the same rush of adrenaline rush through his veins and collect in the pit of his stomach.  
  
"Are you sure? About the bed?" John asked.  
  
Sherlock's attention had been brought back to his laptop again, and his eyes were furiously flickering back and forth art the words on the screen.  
  
"I never say anything unless I am."  
  
"Of course. Well, thank you."  
  
Sherlock didn't respond, and John had no illusions that he would, so John left the lounge, grabbing the pyjamas he had left out for himself on the way, and headed back through the kitchen once again, passed the landing on the stairs and went into Sherlock's bedroom.  
  
They had known each other a long time, lived together a long time, and yet John could count only a handful times he had been in Sherlock's bedroom. It was simple and neat, nothing like the actual mad man himself. The furniture had been moved over the years; the bed that was once an immediate turn from the door was now underneath the central window, Sherlock's dresser, with its assortment of cologne and papers and cuff links, among other various objects, replacing the empty space against the wall. There was a bookshelf in the far corner, though there was more a collection of yellowing, aged bones on it rather than actual books. The walls were still a muted green, a large picture of the Periodic Table Sherlock had been holding onto for decades (sentiment) hung on the wall adjacent to the bed, and his painting of the Chinese Warrior Code, opposite, next to the outer window.  
  
John closed the door and charged into his pyjamas. He turned on the light on the bed side table so he could turn off the main light, and pulled back the covers of Sherlock's bed. He climbed in, slid his feet and legs deep down against the cool and criminally smooth sheets. He took off his watch, and laid it next to Sherlock's. He took a moment to compare the two time pieces as they lay side by side; John's was old, and slightly beat up, the gold dull and tarnished in the places that couldn't be seen. The band was thick and there had been a missing link for ages he hadn't bothered to fix. Sherlock's, in contrast, was a bright, shining titanium-almost as if it were brand new, but John knew it wasn't, because he was the one who bought it for him, terrified the entire time that Sherlock was going to hate it. But he didn't, or at least if he did, he never made mention of it to John. For as glittering and pristine as it seemed, when studied closer John could see the dings and the tiny flecks of un-noticed dirt. There even was a spot of blood on the width of the band that would never come off.  
  
John yawned, and turned the light off. He pushed back against the pillows, and God, if they weren't the softest thing he had ever felt, and pulled the duvet up to his chin. It felt strange suddenly; when the realisation hit that he was cuddling himself down into Sherlock's bed. But he tried if to let the dark overtake him and give him the sleep he really was aching for. It almost worked, except that, as with most people, John was cursed with his brain always coming online the second he closed his eye.  
  
What friend was Sherlock doing a favour for? Sherlock, of course had friends besides John. There was Molly and Greg, and he supposed Mycroft, but none of them would be writing a publication. Well, Molly could be, but it was unlikely she would have sent it to Sherlock for notes. Despite moving on from her hopeless crush she couldn't seem to shake, Molly still didn't handle Sherlock's criticisms all that well. So, who was it then? And why did John even care?  
  
John's thoughts were interrupted by the groan of Sherlock's door and an intrusive stream of light followed by a tall, thin shadow that stretched across the bottom of the bed and the floor.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Sorry. I need my other back up charger. I think it's finally time for a new laptop."  
  
"I do hope you actually mean yours and not mine."  
  
Sherlock only grinned at him again. John could barely see it, but he knew it was there. He had to ask or it was going to plague him the rest of the night.  
  
"Uh, Sherlock, who exactly are you reviewing this paper for?"  
  
"I told you; a friend."  
  
"Right, but who?"  
  
Sherlock gave up rummaging through the top drawer of his dresser, and stalked over to the bedside table. He passed up the top drawer completely, crouching down to open the bottom.  
  
"Victor." He answered, flatly.  
  
"Victor? I had no idea you two were still in contact."  
  
Was that a ping of jealousy John felt? No. No, it wasn't.  
  
"Not still; again."  
  
Sherlock was intent on digging through the seemingly random mess of things in the drawer. John watched him; it seemed as if it never ended.  
  
"Oh." John sputtered out. It wasn't a ping he felt at all; it was a giant aching stab.  
  
Sherlock stood, claiming victory with the charger in his hand. He pushed the drawer shut with his foot, and started toward the door to leave, but stopped and turned to John before he did.  
  
"Does that bother you?" He asked.  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"Good, good. Well, goodnight then."  
  
"Goodnight Sherlock."  
  
John watched Sherlock disappear with the light, and he pushed down into the bed one again, closing his eyes. It was far later than he wanted to be awake, so he tried to will himself to sleep, but it wasn't coming to him.  
  
When had Sherlock and Victor begun speaking again? Did they see each other or was it just text messages and emails? Was that who he had been texting throughout dinner?  John was sure Sherlock wouldn't even have face to face contact with him if wasn't forced upon them through living together.  
  
Well, no, John wasn't actually sure of that. He had learned, through some very unfortunate (and a few fortunate) circumstances that he was Sherlock's exception to almost everything.  
  
Was Victor another exception? After all, he had been the first hadn't he?  
  
John couldn't sleep until he knew. It was going to irrationally eat at him until he found out, so John kicked the covers off and went out to the lounge. He stood, wordlessly, in front of Sherlock.  
  
"Something I can help you with John?" Sherlock asked with a pen between his teeth, and his glasses over his eyes.  
  
John hated every single god damn second he was in the same room as Sherlock when he wore his glasses. It was truly cruel to add another layer of attraction to the already impossibly beautiful man. He remembered the near torture it was at the optometrist when John had gone with to help him pick out his first pair. But John did his best to ignore it in that current moment.  
  
"How long have you and Victor been in contact again?" John asked.  
  
"I thought it didn't bother you."  
  
"It doesn't. I'm just curious."  
  
"So curious you had to get out of bed and ask me?"  
  
"Can you just t answer me now and judge me later?"  
  
"Please John, I never judge you."  
  
"An answer."

"A year and a half."  
  
"And how did-" John sat down on one of the chairs at the desk by the table.  
  
"He sent me an email wanting to catch up. Sentiment does get the better of people over time, and he...missed me."  
  
John swallowed, quite loudly like an over exaggerated cartoon he was sure. "Missed you?"  
  
"Am I unworthy of missing? If I'm not mistaken you missed me at one point."  
  
"Yes, but-" John stood himself from saying anything further, and amended his words, "of course you're worthy of missing, Sherlock. I'm just surprised is all."  
  
"Yes, well, so was I."  
  
"So, you two go out then?"  
  
"We have.” Sherlock waved a non-committal hand through the air “Coffee, dinner."  
  
"Sherlock, are you dating Victor?" John asked. It wouldn't have been the first time Sherlock kept a relationship hidden from him, but of course that wasn't a real relationship to begin with.  
  
"It's fine if you are" John added quickly, "perfectly fine."  
  
Sherlock sighed loudly. He set the laptop down on the cushion next to him, and plucked the pen from between his teeth.  
  
"Yes, I know it would be fine."  
  
"So, are you? Because if you are then I think you and I would need to discuss a few things and...stop a few things as well."  
  
"Whatever would we need to stop John?" His voice was low and rumbling. John wished he had just stayed in bed.  
  
"Sherlock..."  
  
"Oh relax John." Sherlock laughed, "I'm not dating Victor." He got up from the couch and stalked across the space between him and John.  
  
John swallowed loudly yet again and shifted in his chair as Sherlock drew closer, and bent his tall frame into John's personal bubble. He placed his hands on the chair, behind either side of John's head.  
  
"There's no need to stop anything."  
  
"Sherlock...."  
  
"Is my name the only thing you're capable of saying?"  
  
John opened his mouth to say something else other than Sherlock's name, but it seemed there wasn't anything else there for him to say. Sherlock smiled down at him; (three smiles in one night. John wasn't sure he could contain himself) but this one was different. It was dark and feral, and just a tiny bit possessive, and soon it was covering John's mouth.  
  
John gave into Sherlock's soft lips, let them take John's between his own, suck on them gently before adding a touch of teeth. John opened his mouth to let Sherlock's tongue inside. They stayed like that, John stretching his neck up from the chair, Sherlock looming above him, for John wasn't sure how long, just kissing; not even touching. Sherlock's hands were still perched on the chair and John's hands were clasped together in his own lap. Finally, Sherlock pushed himself up and broke his mouth away from John, almost whimpering as he did. John watched Sherlock effortlessly retreat back to the sofa and pick up the laptop once again.  
  
"You should probably go back to bed John. Your shoulder will be unbearable in the morning if you don't get at least five hours." Sherlock said, completely ignoring the beautiful, sexy moment that had just taken place.   
  
"Yes, it does seem to be bothering me more doesn't it?"  
  
"Yes, old age will do that to old wounds."  
  
John stood up from the chair, and turned up his eyebrows at Sherlock.  
  
"Old age?" He ruffled his hands into Sherlock's curls and plucked out one single hair which caused Sherlock's shoulders to jump in response. He held the grey hair up to Sherlock's face.  
  
"And that's not the only one in there."  
  
"It most certainly is; I don't have grey hairs."  
  
John smirked, "you most certainly do, and do I need to remind you about the glasses?"  
  
"No, you do not. The way you ogle me when I wear them makes it a bit hard to forget."  
  
"I don't ogle."  
  
"Yes you do, John."

John felt his ears pinking and knew his cheeks were likely doing the same thing as well; 20 years and Sherlock still had the ability to make his blush like a teenage girl.   
  
"Right. I'm going to bed now."  
  
"Yes, goodnight."  
  
John shook his head, and headed back to Sherlock's room. He stopped at the door, "I do not ogle you!"  
  
"Yes you do!" Sherlock yelled back.  
  
John laughed to himself, and got back into bed. He snuggled deep down into the pillows and blankets, yawned, and finally found sleep.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is pretty short. It was a lot longer, but I cut it in half to make it into two shorter ones or it would have been longer than chapter two, which I just realized was really damn long!
> 
> Anyway, that means that you might get two chapters today, or you'll get the last section of Part One tomorrow. 
> 
> Enjoy!  
> Review!  
> Come back for more!

"John, I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to stay with Bea tonight."  
  
John struggled his eyes open at the sudden sound of Sherlock's voice. It had to be early, but he wasn't sure how early. He blearily looked over to the alarm clock across the room on the dresser; yep, it was early.  
  
"Why's that?" He asked sleepily, managing to recall what Sherlock had just said to him.  
  
"Victor is in town, and would like to go over my notes in person. It was all very last minute. But I spoke to Molly, and she's agreed to come over. I don't plan to be more than a few hours."  
  
Sherlock opened his wardrobe, and pulled down one of his endless assortment of button down shirts, and black trousers. He laid them across the back of the chair that sat near his book shelf.  
  
"Oh. Ok...uh, thanks for that."  
  
"Of course."  
  
Sherlock opened his dresser drawer and rummaged through his sock index quickly before taking out a pair for the day. John still hadn't figured out that damned index. Sherlock then opened the connected door to the bathroom, and John heard the shower start. He didn't have to be up early today, because he didn't have anywhere he needed to be, so all he wanted to do was lie underneath the covers a few more hours, but he figured he should be out of the room once Sherlock was done with his shower.  
  
John sighed. Sherlock, surprisingly, liked to take long showers, so John had at least a few more minutes to savor in the warmth and comfort. He has just closed his eyes again when he heard a sharp trill from next to him. It was Sherlock's mobile. John just ignored it. But then it went off again. And once more.  
  
John should have left it. Sherlock really didn't care much if John looked at his mobile; in fact most of the time he made John do it anyway, but John never did it unless he was asked, because he still liked to at least pretend their was a veil of privacy boundaries between them. And besides if it was, say, Lestrade, he would have sent a text to John's mobile as well, and John hadn't heard anything...because it was upstairs...on silent.  
  
So, John made the decision to pick up the mobile, and unlock the screen to read the three new messages.  
  
 _{ 8:01 }_  
 _Victor: I'm so glad you agreed to see me tonight Sherlock. After last time, I haven't been able to get you out of my mind._  
  
 _{8:02}_  
 _Victor: And yes, I'm aware that was sentiment, but on occasion you do things; wonderfully filthy things, that deserve a bit of sentiment_  
  
 _{8:02 }_  
 _Victor: anyway, I'll see you tonight then._  
  
John put the phone back, and went through the motions of pulling himself out of the bed. Suddenly the luxury of Sherlock's sheets felt hot and itchy, and he needed to get out of them. He knew that Sherlock would know he had read the messages, but he also knew that he would never bring it up. Sherlock had a wonderful habit of not discussing anything he should discuss with John.  
  
John shooed himself into the kitchen, determined to make himself tea and take away the horrible feeling brewing inside of him, but the kettle was already boiling, and three mugs were sitting on the counter.  
  
"Morning dad." Bea said to him with a bright smile.  
  
"Isn't it a bit early for you to be up?"  
  
She shrugged her shoulders, “I’ve been up since seven."  
  
"What have you been doing this last hour?"  
  
"Sherlock and I watched the news."  
  
"Oh." John sat down at the table and rested his elbow on the wooden top, and leaned his head into the palm of his hand.  
  
Bea poured the boiling water over the tea bags in two of the mugs and set one down in front of John. She then sat across from him.  
  
"Thank you." He took a slow, slurping sip of the too hot tea rather than give it a minute to cool down. He didn’t even bother to stir in any milk. It burned at his lip a little, but the heat and the bitter taste against his tongue did its job to instantly soothe him.

 “This is good.” He said to Bea, cradling the mug in his hands.  
  
"Are you alright dad?" She asked.  
  
"Yes, I'm fine. Uh, about Sherlock; it's looks like he has plans tonight-"  
  
"Does that mean Ian can't come over?"  
  
"No, he still can, just Molly is going to be here instead. I'll still be here to meet him as well..." his voice trailed off, "Sherlock just won't be here."  
  
As if saying his name three times was somehow a mystical summons, Sherlock appeared in the kitchen, dressed, and still somewhat damp, smelling like his stupid, ridiculous, expensive vanilla spearmint shampoo and soap. Bea jumped from the table and poured water into his mug then set it down on the table next to her dad where the sugar cup and a spoon were sitting next to the milk carton.  
  
"Thank you." Sherlock said, and sat down to doctor his tea. John tensed beside him, and pushed out the chair to stand up, taking his tea with him.  
  
"Think about what you want to do today. I'm going to take a shower." He said to Bea, and kissed the top of her head as he passed her by.  
  
"I think he's upset with me." Sherlock said, working his fingers around the mug.  
  
"I think so too. What did you do?"  
  
"Something you're too young to know about."  
  
"You should apologize."  
  
"Mmm. Probably,I should."  
  
"But you're not going to, are you?"  
  
Sherlock finally took a sip of his tea, "Not likely."  
  
"So, what are you doing tonight?"  
  
"Something you're too young to know about."  
  
"Oh. Well, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm kind of glad you won't be here...you know, to deduce Ian and all."  
  
"Glad I can be of service then."  
  
Bea shook her head at herself, and pushed away from the table. She walked to the other side, behind Sherlock, and laid her head down on his shoulder, weaving her arms around his neck.  
  
"I told you not to take offense."  
  
"I didn't."  
  
"Then why are you pouting?"  
  
Sherlock laughed, "I'm not."  
  
"You are. All I meant was that I'm nervous enough around Ian, and nervous enough about dad meeting him. If you were too might have a heart attack. So, don't be upset."  
  
"I'm not. I understand how intimidating I can be."  
  
"Good. Because you're my third favourite person, and I love you."  
  
Sherlock patted his hand against hers, "yes, thank you."

“And you really should apologize to dad.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”  
  
An alarm goes off on the kitchen counter that caused Bea to let go of Sherlock. As if on auto pilot, she turned, switched off the alarm and reached into the small black bag sitting next to it. She pulled out a syringe, and a glass vile, which she then plunged the syringe into. She flicked it with her finger nails to get out the bubbles.  
  
"Do you think you can do it for me?" She asked Sherlock, handing him the syringe, and lifting her foot onto the chair next to him.  
  
"Uh, yes."  
  
Sherlock stood next to her and picked up the syringe. Bea had rolled her left pyjama trouser leg up a little passed her knee. Sherlock had seen John do it for her a number of times, and the bright white scar tissue on the fleshiest part of her knee told him where to jab in the needle. He could still remember the day that it happened. John had been back at Baker Street for three months. He and John were arguing about something silly and pointless as usual when John's mobile went off. It rang, like usual, at a normal time of day, but they both could sense the bad that was going to be on the other line.  
  
Mary had gotten into a car accident with Bea in the backseat. A metal fragment came off from one of the seats and pushed through her little knee. The surgeons were able to get most of it out, but there still remained the tiniest fragment of shrapnel that caused her knee to exist in an almost constant state of inflammation that had to be kept at bay by steroid injections.  
  
Bea flinched when the needle pushed through. Sherlock immediately felt awful. He knew that she was used to it, and it only lasted nearly a second, but there was something in the Watson gene that made Sherlock feel every piece of their pain; no matter which Watson it was.

"Thank you." She said, and rolled her trousers back down.

John then emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam with a towel wrapped around his waist. He gave a glance to the clock on the wall on his way to the stairs.  
  
"Did you take your shot?" He asked.  
  
"Yes. Sherlock did it for me."  
  
John hesitated a glance to Sherlock, subconsciously gripping tight at the knot in his towel.  
  
"Thank you." He said to him curtly, and went up to his bedroom.  
  
Bea lowered her eyes to Sherlock and posed her lips together. "Apologize." She said, and she too left Sherlock in the kitchen.  
  
When John came back down, dressed for the day, he ignored Sherlock sitting at the table, tapping his fingers against the mug of his tea. John went about emptying the kettle of its left over water, rinsed it out and set it upside down to dry. He washed his and Bea's mugs before a ring was able to stain from the small amount of tea they had both left.  
  
"Are you finished?" John asked Sherlock, cold and flatly.  
  
"Yes." Sherlock responded. He held up his mug for John to take; leaving the handle clear to allow an easy, quick grip. John's fingers still managed to brush against Sherlock's; likely because they were so bloody long.  
  
John washed the mug and placed it upside down on the towel with the others. He dried his hands, and swiped the paper from the edge of the small table in the corner, and went into the "sitting room to enjoy his chair for the last time. By the time he and Bea would get home, it likely would be gone.  
  
Sherlock followed, and sat in his own.  
  
"John?"  
  
No answer. Not even any acknowledgment that Sherlock said anything.  
  
"John, you're being an idiot."  
  
Nothing again.  
  
"Look, if you want to be angry with me, fine, but can we at least have the inevitable row  now rather than later?"  
  
"You lied to me." John got out before Sherlock had barely even finished talking, throwing his paper down into his lap.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I asked if you were dating Victor, and you told me you weren't."  
  
"I'm not."  
  
"Sherlock!"  
  
"We aren't dating. He sends emails, and I respond. He comes into town, and we have dinner and some intelligent conversion, on my part at least, and we have sex...."  
  
"Christ, Sherlock!"  
  
"I was under the impression that to date someone you had to have some sort of deep, emotional connection to them, and I don't. I find Victor’s company tolerable in small portions, and yes, I do find him attractive, but I don't connect with him."  
  
Sherlock stood from his chair; he seemed to be making a habit of stalking toward John these days. He stopped just a few inches from John's face.  
  
"I don't ever feel the urge to push a stray piece of hair away from his forehead. I couldn't be bothered to make him a cup of tea when if he needed. I can't sit with him in contented silence, don't find him rather humorous, and I likely would never die or kill for him."  
  
"But you-you feel all that for me?"  
  
"Yes, of course I do."  
  
He said so matter of fact, like they were the only true words in the entire world. Sherlock's words were barely more than a whisper, and he had leaned in so far into John that their breath had become the same.  
  
"So, you feel affection for me, and none for Victor, yet you have sex with Victor and only occasionally kiss me?"  
  
"John, it's more complicated than that."

Sherlock’s hand came up to John’s cheek, and his head was titled to the side, studying John with questioning eyes.  
  
"Nothing is complicated to you."  
  
"You are; always have been."  
  
The sound of excited footsteps came from the stairs and sucked through the kitchen just before Bea's voice came running through their tension.  
  
"I'm rea-....totally interrupting something!"  
  
"No, sweetheart, you're not."  John said, looking at Sherlock rather than Bea. "Why don't you go get a cab."  
  
"Um, okay." She slipped on her shoes and backed out from the flat.

John and Sherlock still stood, one’s nose nearly touching the other. John could feel the heat from Sherlock’s body radiating into his own body. Sherlock was going to kiss him; he knew that, he welcomed it, but he also knew, he could tell that it was going to be different; it was going to mean something that they hadn’t themselves let it mean before.

John licked his lips. Sherlock did the same.

Then Sherlock’s phone rang. The shrill tones seemed to cut through their trance, and Sherlock was the first to break, reaching into his pocket to retrieve it. John watched him, and was able to steal a glance at the screen before Sherlock made the decision whether to ignore or answer it.  
  
"Have a nice time with Victor tonight." John said, walking away from the bubble they had locked themselves into. He heard Sherlock’s voice rumble ‘hello’ behind him into the phone, as John reached for his shoes and keys by the door. He grabbed Bea’s coat as well since she had forgotten it on her way out earlier. On his way down the stairs, he heard Sherlock’s laugh follow him down. John slammed the front door, stopping the horrible, and yet so wonderful sound from following him out there. Bea stood at the kerb with a cab, and John hurried her inside, then himself in after. He hoped that she wanted to go somewhere far, far away where Sherlock would just disappear from his mind.

But John knew better. There wasn’t anywhere in the world that could make that happen.


	4. Chapter 4

Beatrice ended up wanting to go to the zoo, which wasn’t a surprise to John. Bea had loved the zoo since she had just begun learning her animals, and John almost always took her there when she spent time with him; it was something he hoped that they could always share with each other, even when she was far passed the age most people stopped wanting to go. John and Bea stopped for an ice cream while on their way to the gorilla habitat. John was paying with one hand, and holding his chocolate cone in the other when Bea's voice rang across his ear, yelling a name.  
  
John turned his head to see who she was calling after and saw Tess running toward them; an excited cuddly haired bit binding behind her, and a beautiful woman with an exhausted smile John remembered to well, trailing them both. He watched Bea embrace Tess, and restore the little boys’ hair. The woman has caught up, and speed just in front of John.  
  
"Hi." He said.

John was instantly aware of just how beautiful she was; her dark hair, resting against her dark, makeup free and flawless face. Her eyes were a shade of brown that made him think of honey and chocolate, and the smile she hadn’t stopped beaming was becoming infectious as he just stood there, watching this stranger exist underneath the rare sunlight of the day. It had been a long time, yes, but John still was aware of the beauty a woman could carry with her.

She pushed a piece of her hair behind her ear, “Hi. I’m Carol.” She said back to him, holding out her hand, “Tess’s mum.”

“Oh, right.” John took her offered hand, “I’m John; Bea’s dad.”

“Yes, Mary has told me a lot about you.”

“That’s never good is it?”

Carol laughed; that was beautiful too.

The two of them stood there with each other sizing the other up, when John felt Bea’s hand slip into his and tug on his arm, resting her chin on his shoulder and looking up at him; he brought his attention to her.

“Is it alright if Tessa and I head over to the Gorilla’s together?” she asked.

“It’s alright with me.” He looked to Carol for her confirmation.

“Yes, just takes James with you. We’ll catch up after your dad buys me an ice cream of my own.” She said, looking to Bea and John’s melting cones.

Bea smiled, and let go of John’s hand to run off with her friends. John and Carol walked up to the ice cream vendor, and John reached into his pocket for his wallet while she ordered a double scoop; chocolate and strawberry- strawberry on the top. He paid, and they started walking side by side to find their children a few yards ahead.

"Mary tells me you share a flat with your boyfriend?" Carol started, as they made their way.  
  
Of course Mary told her that. She likely told anyone who would listen that Sherlock was his boyfriend.  
  
"Uh, I do live with someone, yes, but he's just my flat mate-my friend; a colleague." Absolutely everything but my boyfriend, he thought.  
  
Carol 's eyes widened along with the sly smile already spread across her lips. "I must have misunderstood. I'm sorry."  
  
"No, I'm sure you didn't. Mary and I don't exactly get along."  
  
"She mentioned that as well. Michael and I didn't get along at first either, but I don't think I ever implied he was gay."  
  
John laughed. It felt good to laugh with someone new. Not that it didn’t feel good to laugh with Sherlock; it was always a special part of his day when he and Sherlock got to share a laugh or a giggle, but, something about laughing with someone else; hearing the inflections of happiness in someone else’s voice melt together with his own made him feel good as well in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time. The rush that it gave him made him do something brave.

“I know it’s kind of las minute, and maybe I’m way off base, but a mate and I are meeting at the pub tonight, and if you’d like, you could join us.”

She looked over to him through her eyelashes, “I’d like that John. Tess and James go back to Michael tonight, so I am completely open.”

“Great. It’s the White Hen down by Lintsmoore. We’ll be there by eight.”

“I’ll see you there, then.”

They caught up to the kids, and spent the rest of the afternoon walking with each other until they had seen everything they possibly could, and parted ways for the next few hours. John and Bea took a cab back home, and popped into Speedy’s for a sandwich before heading back into the flat.

John had been right; the new furniture was there, and the entire sitting room had been rearranged differently for the first time since he had moved in. He didn’t give much look to it, however, and instead went about checking for signs of Sherlock, but there weren’t any; already gone for the night. He went into the kitchen to make tea, and left Bea to her nervous flutter as she got ready for Ian to come over. When she was done with the shower, they started their carefully coordinated dance where John took his turn, scrubbing the sweat and grime from the day off from himself while she got dressed upstairs, and then John dressed for his night while she returned to the bathroom to brush her teeth and blow dry her hair.

Upon entering his bedroom, John noticed  that his chair, the chair he had prepared himself to miss was sitting in the corner adjacent to the door, facing the bed with a piece of paper stuck into the back cushion. John ripped the paper from the pin that was keeping it there, and read the words written there in Sherlock’s scrawl.

_John- As it turns out, watching the delivery men start to drag this chair from the flat; I too, am quite sentimental toward this silly piece of furniture, because when I imagine your place in my life, I often see you sitting in it, across from me; always where I can see you._

John let the paper rest on the seat of the chair, _damnit Sherlock_ , he thought to himself. No matter how long they were together, he always, always found a way to surprise John in the most beautiful of ways.  He escaped a long sigh from his lungs and went about dressing. Just as he was pulling on his last sock, the buzzer rang from downstairs. John checked the time; it could have been Molly arriving a little bit early, or it could have been Ian. John descended the stairs to go and find out.

It turned out to be Ian. John watched Bea walk back up the stairs with him, and he wished that Sherlock was there to whisper in his ear everything he would have undoubtedly known about the boy already. John moved from the doorway to let them inside, and they stood in front of John.

“Dad, this is Ian.” Bea said, her voice half an octave higher than usual, and at the same time softer, like a whisper. Sherlock could have told him what that was all about too, had he been there.

Ian held out his hand, and John reached to shake it. He didn’t look so bad; just like he would imagine any other thirteen year old boy to look. His hair was a little shaggy, and it was a dark auburn color. His clothes fit well, and John was grateful for him not wearing jeans down to his knees.

“Ian, it’s nice to meet you.” He said.

“It’s nice to meet you too Dr. Watston.”

John thought about correcting him, and telling him that he could call him John, but then thought better of it; let him sweat a little bit with formalities.

“We’re gonna pop in a DVD, is that alright?” Bea asked.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Molly should be here soon.”

John watched Bea pop over to the television, and stick a DVD into the player. She walked Ian over to the couch, and they sat down close, but not too close to another. John smiled.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate Molly staying with Bea tonight on such short notice." John said to Greg over his fast emptying pint.  
  
"She was glad to. David is spending the night with his cousins, and she had been complaining about she was going to be lonely without either of us there tonight.”

  
"I would have just let her stay home alone for a few hours, but when I thought Sherlock was going to be home, I promised her that she could have her boyfriend over."  
  
"Boyfriend?" Greg   
  
"Well, a boy who is a friend whom she likes, and I think he likes her as well. You remember love at 13 don't you?"  
  
Greg laughed, "Luckily, no. I imagine it was quite terrible."  
  
"Yes, I think it was."  
  
"Where is Sherlock by the way? He was really vague with Molly."  
  
John took the last drink in his glass, and motioned for the waitress to bring him another.  
  
"Sherlock is out. With Victor."

Greg’s eyebrow quirked up, and he took a glance to John’s direction.  
  
"The old university boyfriend?"  
  
"That's the one. They appear to have an intimate relationship once again."  
  
"No shit?"  
  
"Absolute truth."  
  
"And how do you feel about that?" Greg asked.  
  
"I feel fine about it. Sherlock can see whoever he wants. He can lie to me about it too. It's all perfectly fine by me."  
  
"Yes, I can see that."

John flipped Greg a flash of his middle finger, and sipped at his new pint. From the corner of his eye he saw the door to the pub open, and Carol walk inside, her eyes immediately scanning for sign of John. John stood from his stool, and waved her over where he introduced her to Greg, and ordered a pint for her. She was just as beautiful, if not more so, than he remembered from earlier in the day. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail, and her face was still flawlessly free of make up aside from a what John guessed was tinted lip gloss, because they shined just on the light side of pink.  They all settled into conversation, and John’s mood, and anger at Sherlock started to fade away.  
  
John watched Carol laugh with Lestrade. He wondered that if she was able to fit so well into his night out if she would fit as well into the rest of his life? The answer was of course no, because there was no part of his life that existed without Sherlock. John wouldn't even know how to leave, wasn't sure if he could do that to him or even if he wanted to. John didn't want to leave Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't seem to care much if John stayed or went. It had been like that their entire relationship. But John knew better than to think that didn’t mean Sherlock didn’t want him there. He knew that Sherlock did. He just didn’t know how to tell John that; the same way John didn’t’ know how to tell Sherlock that he never wanted to leave. They both had been living under the assumption that it was something they didn’t need to say; that they were just facts that the other should know, and yet both of them were waiting for the other to just say what they needed to hear.

  
Despite having that knowledge, John still allowed himself to share a quick kiss with Carol as she waited with John for a cab while Lestrade was in the loo inside. But it felt good to share a kiss with someone new; like the laugh had felt good earlier. It felt good to be wanted by someone other than Sherlock; by someone less intimidating and less confusing than his beautiful, curly haired mad man.  They eventually parted ways, with Carol leaving her number in John’s mobile, and John rode back to Baker Street with Greg in silence.

  
  
It was quiet when they got inside. Molly sat on the sofa, her fingers getting at the edge of a book she had taken down from the shelf. As John hung up his coat, he watched Greg sneak behind her and place a kid to the top of her head. She turned, and smiled, then stood, placing the book down on the cushion.  
  
"Is she asleep?" John asked.  
  
"Yea. She didn't make it up there until about an hour ago. We were painting nails." Molly held up her hands to show off her newly painted, hot pink manicure. "She only had the one color."  
  
Greg laughed, and reached for Molly’s hand.  
  
"Guess I'll have to get her some more then.” John twisted his fingers around each other a few times, before he spoke again, “Did Sherlock come home at all?"  
  
"No. I kept expecting him, because this morning he said he would only be a few hours, but he never showed."  
  
"Oh. Well, thanks for staying."  
  
"Of course. I know you boys need your pub night, and I always adore time with Bea. Ian was a sweetheart too. Once I convinced him to stop calling me Mrs. Lestrade at least."  
  
"Tired of it already?" Greg asked.  
  
Molly leaned over and kissed his cheek, "never."  


John walked them to the door, and closed it once they were gone and heading down the stairs. He turned the light off with the switch, and then turned on the small, gold lamp that sat on the desk, which was now pushed against the wall where their couch used to be. John took his first opportunity to look at the new furniture. All the pieces matched, which was the way John supposed most every one’s home looked, but it was strange to see such uniformity within those walls. The couch and the two chairs that sat where the old ones had with the coffee table between all three of them, was a buttery, medium brown color with rounded edges and held together by a sleek, stainless steel frame. It was comfort and stability thrown together to make one solid piece.  He thought about making tea, but just didn’t have the energy left in him, so instead, he slipped into the chair he assumed was now is, and stared at the empty one across from him until his eyes slipped closed.

An hour, maybe two passed that John slept in the chair when the door creaked open behind him, and stirred him awake. He lifted his neck up from where it had fallen against his shoulder. He winced at the sharp pain that ran from each appendage as he turned just to see Sherlock slipping off his shoes.

“Sherlock, what are you doing home?” he asked from the near dark. Sherlock jumped in surprise at the sound of John’s voice; he had expected him to be sleeping downstairs, not expecting him to be awake.

“Home is generally where one goes once their day is finished; that’s why it’s called home.”

"Must you always be such a smart arse? I meant, that it’s-“he looked down to his watch, “three in the morning; I wasn’t expecting you home tonight.”  
  
"I was having a hard time sleeping."  
  
"Victor not much of a cuddler?"

“Too much of a cuddler actually, and it felt; it didn’t feel right to fall asleep there with him.” Sherlock unceremoniously flopped down into the chair across from John.

“And why is that?”  
  
"Because, every time I closed my eyes and started to drift away, he would breathe into my ear, or tighten his grip around my waist, and I felt...wrong. I imagine it's what normal people feel just before they make the decision to commit adultery."  
  
"Sherlock, I know I was upset, but you weren’t cheating on me."  
  
"Yes,I know that. Just as the kiss you shared this evening with a near stranger wasn't you cheating on me. But none the less I felt bad about staying to sleep with him."  
  
"So, you came home? For me?"  
  
"If that’s how you’d like to look at it."  
  
"What does that mean then exactly?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, "If I knew, don’t you think I would have done something about it in the last eighteen years?"  
  
"I don't know. I thought you had some sort of epiphany tonight."  
  
"No. I just had persistent and irritating feelings of guilt."  
  
"Oh.”

John thought he had something else to say, but he instead just opened and closed his mouth, and settled into watching Sherlock sit with his fingers lazily tracing over his own thigh. A minute passed and he made the decision to get up and head over to the couch to sleep, but the sound of ‘dad’ piercing through the darkness changes his train of thought, and both he and Sherlock scrambled to their feet and ran up the stairs where where Bea was sitting up in John’s bed, her face red and stained with tears.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, immediately setting his hand to her forehead; warm, but likely just from the stress the apparent pain is wreaking on her body.

“My knee.”

Of course. John should have known. He peeled down the blanket from her, and lifted up the leg of her pyjamas to reveal that her entire knee had swollen to at least twice its size. John hovered his hand over it, but didn’t dare reach down to touch.

“And you took your shot before bed?”

“Yes.”

“Right.” He stood up, and looked over to Sherlock, standing near the door and watching, “Can you get the heat pack and the pain medicine from the cabinet?”

Sherlock didn’t even answer; just turned and left the room to do as he was asked. He came back a minute later with both things in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He handed the hot pack to John who started to wrap it in a thin t-shirt. Sherlock opened the bottle of pills and poured two out into his hands. He held them out to Bea who popped them in and shakily took the glass of water from Sherlock to swallow them down with. She handed the glass back, and he set it on the table.

“Stay in here with me?” she asked John after he wrapped the pack around her knee as comfortably as he could.

He nodded and slid in to the empty side of the bed, and let her rest her on his shoulder. Sherlock stepped away from the bed, but only to sit down in the chair he had brought up there earlier.

“Sherlock, you don’t have to stay.” John said to him, as he ran his fingers through his daughter’s hair to lull her back to sleep.

“I know I don’t.” Sherlock answered, and crossed his legs across the chair to get more comfortable.

John smiled at him, and they all were lost to the silence. John kept stroking at Bea’s hair, and quietly humming to her until she was breathing easy enough to have finally fallen asleep again. He kissed the top of her head, and then looked up at Sherlock for the first time since they had settled in, though he knew Sherlock had been staring at the two of them the entire time with concern in his eyes. Sherlock always tried to hide his fear, his worry, his weaknesses, as he would describe them, from everyone, even from John, but John always saw through him just as Sherlock always saw through John. It was as if they were the only two people in the world who could see the other; as if that was they way it was always meant to be.

"Sherlock,” John started, and Sherlock’s eyes brightened in attention, “we have been spending years, decades, in our comfort zone with one another, and do you know what happens in a comfort zone?"  
  
"What, John?"  
  
"Nothing. Nothing changes, nothing gets worse, and nothing ever gets better. It all just stays the same."  
  
"Have we stayed the same?"  
  
"For the most part."  
  
"Then what do we so to get out of this comfort zone? Assuming that we even should."  
  
"We make a decision; _the_ decision."  
  
"Right now? At this very moment?" Sherlock asked, motioning to the sleeping girl beside John.  
  
"If not now, when? We've been putting it off nearly half our lives already. Just tell me, Sherlock, once and for all, just tell me"  
  
To anyone else, it might have sounded as if John was being rather obtuse, but Sherlock knew exactly what John was asking of him. Sherlock Holmes was a man of truth; no matter whose feelings he was to hurt in the process, Sherlock always gave the truth in one way or another. Except for himself. Among all his other genius traits, he was an expert at denying himself the truth about himself. And now John was asking for Sherlock to stop lying, to stop hiding and to tell him and himself the truth that they both already knew, but had gotten so well at hiding.  
  
" Solitude and I had a very intimate relationship; one that I was quite satisfied with. But that was only because I was unaware that there existed another human being whose companionship I would not only enjoy, but would come to need and want and desire. I never quite realized that I had been lonely until I had you by my side. Your friendship has been every thing to me. You have come to occupy so many nooks and crannies in my Mind Palace that I've had to rebuild several times just to be able to keep all the other information in its place. And more than that, you are the only person, with exception to obligatory family, who occupies any space in my heart, which terrifies me.

 I could keep my emotions in check when you were simply running rampant in my head, but I have no idea what to do with emotions I actually feel in my heart, mostly because I know they are hypothetical emotions, because obviously my heart doesn't feel or process information, but my brain does, and it sends signals for my heart to beat  faster every time we are in a room together, every time I hear your voice or your name or smell your shampoo, and I find that I quite enjoy that feeling. I enjoy you, I enjoy us, and I would very much like there to be an 'us' and only an 'us' for the rest of our lives."  
  
Sherlock seemed to finally have finished speaking. His cheeks were flush, and he licked his lips a few times to return the moisture they had lost. John looked at him from across the room, his eyes wide in amusement and a bit in astonishment. He laughed quietly before whispering back to Sherlock's monologue.  
  
"You could have just told me that you love me."  
  
"Would it have been that simple?"  
  
John laughed "I'm a simple man."  
  
"No, you're not. But if you must insist upon it, then, yes, John, I love you; I have loved you for a very long time."  
  
John smiled. He wished for the smallest of moments that he could get up from the bed and cross over to Sherlock, but he promises Bea he would stay with her until the morning, and both men knew that John wouldn't break his promise to her, even in that most life altering moment where Sherlock Holmes had finally admitted his love. So, John just kept smiling through the dark, knowing that Sherlock could feel it, if not make it out from the dim light creeping through a crack in the curtains, and he knew that Sherlock undertood.  
  
"I love you too Sherlock. I always have, and I always will."  
  
"I know." Sherlock said quieter than the whisper they had been using.  
  
They both let out long held breaths of relief. They had been holding onto those words for far too long; afraid of what they might mean, of what they might change. But of course, they meant everything and would change nothing.  
  
"You really don't have to stay in that chair all night." John told Sherlock once again.  
  
"There isn't anyplace else I can think of being right now rather than where you are."  
  
John smiled again, and searched for the brights of Sherlock's eyes in the dark before he closed his own. It was nearly dawn already, and if Bea was better when she woke, which he suspected she would be, John would have a shift at the surgery to get through. It was easy to find sleep, however, underneath the watchful, loving eye of Sherlock Holmes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, but I've had it done for a while now, so I figured I would put it up!
> 
> Part one was told from John's perspective; Part two will now from Bea's; and you guessed it! Part three, will be from Sherlock's point of view.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> Review!  
> Come back for more!

 

 

Part Two- An Interlude

 

Bea woke up earlier than she would have liked to, but the upside of sleeping through immense pain was that it made it you sleep hard; the four or five hours she had gotten felt like a full night. She turned first, against her pillow to see her dad, sleeping sitting up, his mouth slightly open. She next noticed Sherlock, looking very much the same way in the chair in the corner.  
  
Many people would look at Bea and pity her. Her entire life had been spent between two parents who could barely stand the sight of one another for very different reasons, but she's never felt in between, never felt caught or conflicted. If anything, she felt that she had more than other kids, because she had Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock was always her buffer. When things were bad between her mum and dad, because they were often times bad, Sherlock managed to take her mind away from it with an experiment or a puzzle. He had even put his affinity for walking over their furniture to use a time or two by pretending the floor was made of lava.  
  
Bea loved Sherlock, and she took comfort in how Sherlock loved her back like she was his own. She knew, even at a young age, that love wasn't a word or an emotion that he took lightly, so Bea always felt special that Sherlock took the chance to love her when he didn't have to.  
  
She pushed the covers slowly off from herself, making sure not to wake her dad. Her feet touched the cold, hard wood, and she wobbled a bit trying to stand. She picked up the crumpled up blanket that had fallen to the floor in the night, and brought it over to Sherlock to cover him with. She pushed his hair back from his forehead, and pressed a kiss to his temple before shuffling back to her dad and doing the same.  
  
She padded her way down the stairs, and into the bathroom. She looked horrid. A shower was definitely in order, and then tea; a Watson knows that tea makes everything better. She stayed in the shower longer than she planned, and only stepped out because the water had gone cold. She dried off and changed into a billowing white skirt and a bright orange tank top she had managed to remember to grab on her way out of the bedroom. She ran a comb through her long, blonde hair and then braided it over her right shoulder. She opened the bathroom door, having left it slightly more haphazard than she found it, and ran directly into Sherlock's cotton covered, bony chest.  
  
"Fuck!" She yelled as he caught her by the arms.  
  
"Does your father know that you use that kind of language?" He asked with a smirk.  
  
"I don't. You just scared me. I can't be responsible for what comes out of my mouth when I'm frightened."  
  
Sherlock considered her words for a minute, and then nodded, "actually, you do make a valid point. The neurons in your brain ignite the flight out fight response and not much else. You are a Watson, therefore your brain is coded for fight, and a heightened sense of self protection can cause defensive language."  
  
Bea stared up at Sherlock, her mouth slightly agape, and her eyes knitted in sarcasm, "you are way too smart for this early in the morning."  
  
"He's way too smart for all times of the day."  
  
Bea and Sherlock both turned at the sound of John's voice. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, his hand scrubbing at the back of his neck.  
  
Bea sighed, "neither of you are supposed to be up yet."  
  
"We aren't, are we?" Her dad asked her, walking closer to the pair, and pressing a kiss to the top of Bea's head before absently doing the same to Sherlock. He hadn't even thought about it; it just felt natural.  
The kiss doesn't go unnoticed by her.  
  
"You do love Sherlock!" She yelled, scurrying away from the two of them, far enough away that it was if she was studying them like an exhibit in The British Museum.  
  
John rolled his eyes, "yes, yes. It's all lovey and romantic. Let's talk about something else, like how your knee is feeling."  
  
Bea laughed, and then pressed her fingers instinctively into her knee cap, "it's much better. I think I can probably make it to dance tonight."  
  
"I don't know if that's a good idea. You really should let it rest it today."  
  
"Dad, I have to go. Principal try outs are in t three weeks, and if I miss a class I could miss something important or Miss April might have to use attendance of there's a close call between cutting me, and maybe Sabrina, because Sabrina is really good too, but she's never missed a day, but even when she had the stomach flu. It was gross actually; she threw up by the bar."  
  
"Bea, Bea. Call down. I'm sure Miss April will understand if you have to miss one night."  
  
"Please." She pouted out her lip, "you're the one who's always telling me not to let my injury hold me back."  
  
"You do tell her that, John." Sherlock said.  
  
"Can we not do the gang up on dad thing please?"  
  
"Just think about yourself. What if, instead of rushing at the chance to chase down a mad criminal with me that first night, you had chosen to stay here, and just limp away to a hot shower and bed?"  
  
"That was different. My limp was psychosomatic."  
  
"But you still could have cited it as an excuse not to go with me, and it may have never gotten better. And besides your phantom limp, your shoulder wound could keep you from doing many simple and not so simple tasks, but you've never allowed it to."  
  
John squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and pressed his thumb into each of them. The two of them were right, and he knew it.  
  
"Fine." He relented with a long and loud sigh, and Bea hopped over to wrap her arms around his waist. "But, you take both your shots, your pain relievers, and you rest on the couch with hot and cold packs. We'll stretch it out about an hour before you have to get ready, and if I don't think its okay to dance on, you don't go. No arguments. Okay?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Alright. Go settle on the sofa then. I'll get breakfast, and we'll do your first shot after."  
  
Bea walked away from her dad and Sherlock who stayed standing close in the hallway. After she rounded the corner to enter the kitchen, she stopped and waited a minute before quietly turning and peeking her head around the wall. Any suspicion that she had niggling inside her gut was confirmed when she saw the two of them kissing, no, more like full on snogging; Sherlock crowding her dad against the wall. She smiled to herself and pulled back to continue her journey to the sofa before she saw anything that might send her into therapy later on in life.

She picked up her dad's laptop from the coffee table and typed in the password. She immediately went into his bookmarks and opened up his blog. Bea loved reading through the blog; sometimes it was like reading a novel about people she didn't even know rather than her own father.  
  
"Do you want tomato with your beans?" she heard her dad call from the kitchen.

"Yes, thanks."  
  
She heard a knife begin to rhythmically beat against the cutting board and went back to her reading. She's read them all, countless times, but they never bore her. From the kitchen she can also hear soft murmurs between her dad and Sherlock; the words she couldn’t quite make out but it didn’t much matter, because the sound that their voices made when mingled together, even in a whisper was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! Teenage sexuality in this chapter!
> 
>  
> 
> It should be noted that I don't have an editor or a beta. I do my best, but sometimes I miss a few things here and there. It can be a bit difficult sometimes when I'm up and down all day tending to my daughter; playing with her, getting her lunch, getting her down to a nap, and then trying to come back and edit, so I apologize for any mistakes/errors, and just know that they are all mine!

Bea, with some initial reluctance from her father did make it to her dance practice. He and Sherlock dropped her off, and she danced and danced and danced. Even when practice was over and everyone else has gone home for the night, she kept dancing. It was a deal that had been made in the cab ride over; a long desired night for Sherlock and her dad in exchange for two more hours at the dance studio, and being allowed to spend the night at Tess’s.  
  
Bea found ballet, her dance of choice, when she was seven. It has been a Christmas when her mum and dad were uncharacteristically getting along, and they took her to see the Royal Ballet production of The Nutcracker. The following week, well after the holiday she kept going on and on about how beautiful the dancers were, how they moved and how it made her feel when they did. She started to beg for lessons; just one to see if she liked it. Her mum was unsure at first; didn’t want Bea to fall in love with something that, in the end, she wouldn’t be able to have, but her dad had said that it would be better for her to have her heart broken after at least trying rather than watching another ballet full of regret and resentment. So, she went, and she danced, and she fell in love.

Sometimes it was hard; sometimes her knee hurt or gave out completely in the middle of a routine, but she never quit; she didn’t know how to quit. She craved ballet the way that people graved drugs or an adrenaline rush; it was her drug, her passion; her everything.

 

When Bea was sure her feet couldn’t take anymore she found Tess in the auditorium, sitting on the stage with her little brother James, Ian and her summer school work spread out in front of them. They all hung around a few minutes more and walked the three blocks to where Tess spent every other week with her dad and her little brother.  
  
"Wait, your dad isn't home?" Bea asked, setting her things down on the counter in the kitchen, and looking around to notice that no one else was there but the four of them.  
  
"No. He's working late at the hospital. So, we can do whatever we like." A mischievous smile crossed Tess' face. "I think we should start with the away and a movie. I just have to put James to bed first.”  
  
Of course. Take away and a movie; normal things that her normal friend did. What did Bea think was going happen: underage drinking and then some weird first time threesome? This was Tess. She had known her since they were in training pants, and Tess was just the same as Bea; sweet, dedicated, a bit naive, but not stupid. And Ian was a nice guy; sweet and kind-he wouldn't do anything he shouldn't, anything Bea didn't want. And when did this turn into some rebellious, teenage sex thing anyhow? She was spending the night at her best friends house, and her best friend was kind enough to let Bea's boyfriend hang out with them for a little bit. Was Bea the one that wanted something sexual to happen? (with Ian, not Tess.)  
  
She didn't think she wanted anything sexual from Ian. She enjoyed just kissing him; she was just getting used to kissing him, to kissing anyone for that matter. And sure, she wondered what his soft lips would feel kissing other parts of her body, or what it might be like for her to kiss other parts of his, but it was just natural curiosity brought on by her hormones; it wasn't anything that she was really ready to explore. Not yet.  
  
Bea looked across the island and watched Ian, where he was reading through a Chinese take away menu Tess had pulled out from a drawer. She liked his features, and laughed a little at herself for how shallow she was, but he was good looking. Most boys their age were awkward and just starting to grow into the adult body they would eventually posses. Maybe it was because he was already almost fifteen, but he was less alien looking, less strange and pathetic. His face had definition rather than baby fat, his eyes weren't as juvenile as the other boys in her class, and they were bright and blue; like a diamond surrounded by snowflakes and then dipped into the ocean. His body was defined too; still a bit gangly, his limbs just a bit longer than they ought to be, but even through his t-shirts or his button down for school, you could see the beginnings of defined, lean muscle.  
  
Suddenly Bea was aware that she had been staring, because Ian had abandoned his menu and was staring back at her; amused and maybe a little confused.  
  
"B, do you need to see the menu?" He asked in a tone that suggested he had already asked her at least once already.  
  
Bea shook her head in as much an answer as to clear the fog she had created around her brain.  
  
"No. My mum and I order from there. I'll have a number 17." She said, turning her attention to Tess, standing with the phone in her hand.  
  
Tess placed the order and they ask waited rather silently around the island for the food to arrive. They dished up and brought their plates into the lounge where Tess put in the first of the Ghostbusters movies. It was just as Dana had gone seductively scary that Bea realized she had cuddled herself into Ian's side, her head was resting on his shoulder, and his hand had slipped its way up her shirt to rub soft circles against her back. Her body must have tensed, because Ian's hand stopped moving.  
  
"Is that alright?" He asked.  
  
"Yea, yea. I just didn't realize you were doing it.  
  
"Then it must be relaxing, yeah?"  
  
Bea smiled and settled into him further, "yes, relaxing."  
  
"Do you guys want some cake?" Tess asked, looking back from where she sat on the floor in front of them on the couch. "There's a coffee shop that stays open ask night, and they make the best chocolate cake. I can run and grab one."  
  
"I could go for some cake." Ian said, and so Bea was inclined to agree with the crowd.

Tess smiled, and Bea thought that maybe she even winked in their general direction and then hopped up from the floor. She grabbed her purse on the table by the door and left them alone, without another word. Bea tried to shake off the strange feeling Tess’s possible wink had given her, and tried to pay attention to the movie again, but then Ian’s hand had moved out from underneath her shirt to cup at her chin, and he was kissing her; harder then he usually did, and then- well, then she wasn’t exactly sure what or how anything else happened, but a series of events led her to allow her shirt to be pulled up over her head, and Ian’s lips to slip down to her neck.  
  
She was sitting there, her Rolling Stones t-shirt on the coffee table, her black tank top pushed down to the middle of her stomach, and her plain white bra exposed. Her head was spinning while she felt Ian's lips on hers and his hands just on the sides of her breasts. He slid one hand away, down her ribcage until he found her own hand and he grabbed it, pushed it to land in the crotch of his jeans.  
  
Bea was pretty sure that her heart stopped beating.  
  
"Move your hand B." Ian said against her lips.  
  
"I can't."  
  
"It's easy. Here, I'll help you." He put his hand over hers again, and used it to help her grind down into him. She instantly pulled away, her lips, as well as her hand.  
  
"Ian, I'm sorry, but I just can't."  
  
"It's fine." He said in a voice that communicated it was anything but fine.

She had screwed everything up. Why did she question it; why didn’t she just move her hand? It’s not as if he had put her hand down his pants; his jeans were still on; still buttoned and zipped. She had to do something to salvage this moment; to keep Ian there with her.  
  
"We can- we can keep kissing, and I like you touching me."  
  
Ian's eyes widened at that, and her panic began to subside, though, she wasn’t sure if it should be.  
  
"You do?" He asked, gently pushing to lie back against the arm of the couch.  
  
Bea swallowed hard and nodded. Ian's hand pulled at the waistband of her yoga pants, and she allowed them to slide down her hips, over her knees and off her ankles until she was laying there in her undies, bra still exposed, stomach still mostly covered by the black fabric of her tank top. Ian slid his body on top of hers, pressed his body down over her fast breathing chest, and kissed her again. Bea felt one of his hands between their bodies and travel down, down to the waistband of her pants and slip under.  
  
She gasped and twitched from the awkward sensation it created, but she didn't ask him to stop, because as strange as it was, it also felt good; very good. It lasted what Bea felt was only a few minutes, but when she had come back to herself she saw how red and sweaty Ian's face looked; must have lasted a bit longer than she thought. It was only another minute before she found her hand pressed back against his jeans.  
  
"Ian, I said no." she pulled her hand out of his grip  
  
"But that was before."  
  
"Look, what you did was great; _really, really_ great, and I want to return the favor-"  
  
Ian tugged at her hand again, "then return it."  
  
"No! I'm not ready for that."  
  
"So, you're ready to take, but not give back? All you girls are the same." He laughed. His voice low and different than Bea had heard before. "Except Tess. She knows how to give back more than she received."  
  
Bea could hardly believe what she was hearing. Had Ian just called her a prude, had he just told her that, what; Tess had given him a blowjob, let him have sex with her? She was angry so angry. She pulled her top back up over her chest, slid her jeans on and grabbed her t-shirt.  
  
"You are disgusting." She said to Ian, and slapped her hand across his face, "you can tell Tess I said the same thing about her."  
  
She gathered her other things and stomped to the front door, which she slammed shut on her way out.

  
  
Bea managed to make it home without crying. She managed to fill the kettle with her shaking hands without crying, and she managed to not cry throughout her entire tea ritual of squeezing the life out of the bag, stirring in the sugar and watching the milk swirl. She thought, as she took the first few hot, relaxing sips, that she would make it the rest of the night; would go up to bed and reset; forget the last two days.  
  
She heard the door at the end of the hallway creak open, footsteps shuffle against the hardwood, and then saw her dad; hair messed, pyjama bottoms and no shirt come slowly into the kitchen, shielding his sleepy eyes from the light.  
  
"Bea, what are you doing home?" He asked.  
  
And all Bea had to say was that she didn't feel well, or her and Tess got into a stupid fight, that it was no big deal, and apologize for waking him up, but instead she started to cry and ran over to her dad's arms, already outstretched and waiting for her. Bea didn't often have the chance to seek out comfort from her dad, but she knew that he was good at it; maybe even better than her mum. His small but strong arms enveloped her perfectly, and her head fit just right on his shoulder, underneath his chin.  
  
"What went wrong?" He asked gently.  
  
Bea couldn't tell him. He would lose it. The soothing hands running against her spine would quickly turn into the deft, killing machines Bea knew they could be. But she needed to tell him something; and needed to hear something, anything in return to make her feel better.  
  
"Were you a complete arsehole when you were fourteen?"  
  
He laughed lightly, "I suppose I probably was, but I didn't know any better."  
  
Teenage boys _are_ stupid, but Bea thought that if she knew what he did was wrong, then Ian had to know better.  
  
"So, when do boys start to know better?"  
  
"Oh, sometimes not for a very, very long time."  
  
"That is complete rubbish."  
  
He laughed again, "Yes, it is. So, tell me, who needs to pay Ian a visit; me, Sherlock or Mycroft?"  
  
Bea already knew what he would do, and it likely would end with a mysterious sprained ankle so Ian would have to sit out on a few football games. Sherlock would wound him just as deeply only he wouldn't leave any physical scars behind. And Mycroft, well, Bea just hoped that no one ever hurt her so bad that Mycroft needed to step in.  
  
"I don't think any of you are necessary. But maybe we could take a break; get out of the city for a little bit?"  
  
"That sounds like a good idea. I've this weekend off; we can rent a cottage- just the two of us-"  
  
"Not Sherlock?"  
  
"Can you imagine him out in the country without his experiments or even an alley to skulk around in when he got bored? He would go mad and take us with him."  
  
Bea laughed, "I suppose he would. She pulled away from his embrace, and then leaned in just a bit again to kiss his cheek, "I feel better now, thank you."

“Good, then get up to bed.” He kissed the top of her head, “Love you Beatrice.”

“Love you too dad.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Part Three

 

Sherlock loved being alone. He loved being left to himself, without anyone to nag him to eat, clean after himself or to generally move about.

The first thing Sherlock did when he came back from leaving John and Beatrice at the train station was to peel off the trousers and shirt he threw on that morning, and slipped into one of his dressing gowns; his oldest- a light blue silk with darker trim. It should have been thrown away years ago when the belt started to fray, and a few silk strings started to hang at the ends, but it still fit, and still wrapped around his body like a pair of comforting arms, so he kept it around. Afterward, he changed the bedclothes, but the case on John’s pillows; he would change those just before John came home. When that was through, he made himself some tea, and flopped down into his chair. He slid down far enough to stretch his legs out so that his toe could rest on the edge of John’s chair, steepled his fingers underneath his chin, and tipped his head back to stare at his favorite crack in the ceiling.

In a few seconds he was retreated into his Mind Palace. He wasn’t looking for anything particular today, just taking  a leisurely stroll down the corridors, in and out of rooms to see what was still there. Maybe later he would take a rest on the verandah where he kept a running collection of the different scenery he has taken in throughout his life, or sit out on one of the many balconies he had built to hold special place memories. He would make damn sure to stay away from the cellar and the attic today; this was a pleasant visit into his Mind Palace; no need to dg through the things he kept there.

Sherlock started with the music room; the first room he started to build at five years old, before he even knew he was building anything. It had become a rich, cavernous like room with black walls and golden, spiraling inlay with dark green, velvet curtains that hung to the sides of the wall length windows. The pieces had learned stacked in neat piles on great, wooden tables; the ones he had composed stacked on the other. The instruments he had various knowledge of sat lined on shelves on the wall; a variety of violins at the fingertips of his mind. He could pick one up and tune it (because tuning was half the fun), play a quick waltz or a return to some of the work he had abandoned long ago. Perhaps he would; just for a bit.

When he had had enough of the music room, Sherlock replaced the violin, returned the sheet music to its appropriate stack and moved on; leaving the door open for the sounds he had created to continue to resonate throughout his stay. He went next to a large cupboard that housed his information on various fabrics and cuts of suits, and the different materials a button on a shirt could be made of; the process and history of the zipper; other fashions from around the world. He continued on to the other rooms of the third floor of his Mind Palace; a room that collected various, mundane hobbies like board games, and candle making. Sherlock then made the decision to head down the spiraling, squared off staircase to perhaps take a stop in the library, or head to the outside grounds and visit the aviary or the greenhouse. The distant pattering of rain against his eardrums had given him a strange longing for the pleasantries of the outdoors.

He hadn't meant to, but he got off the staircase at the second floor. This floor once held one of his libraries, the one where he kept general facts that didn't fit anywhere else, and a guest room where he kept temporary information that could be deleted or moved as soon as it was no longer pertinent. At one time, on the second floor, there had been a room dedicated to past lovers-Victor mostly; along with a few other rooms. They had since been replaced with information on John. The entire floor was nothing but endless rows of ornate, wooden cabinets filled to the brim with every piece of data he had collected about John from the very first moment. The more intimate details Sherlock was just learning were being stored away in Sherlock's personal bedroom; where he kept all the most intimate information about himself as well. Sherlock didn’t want to stop at the second floor, because he knew once he started, he would never leave; days could go by and Sherlock would still be sitting there; sifting through everything John was.

But he was there now-his fingers teasing at a drawer. Surely, it wouldn't hurt anything to stay just a bit.  
  
Sherlock was constantly accumulating new data on John, so the cabinets weren't as organized as the rest of the rooms. Unless it was information he would need in an emergency-John’s resting heart rate, his allergies, his blood type- Sherlock had no idea what information was stored where. He opened the drawer his fingers had fallen on, and was met with photos; what a lovely thing to stumble upon. Sherlock grabbed a handful from the seemingly endless pit of a drawer, and carried the photos over to a red chair- John’s red chair- in the corner of the room.

 He shuffled through the images; memories of John’s face, occasionally the rest of him as well, that he wanted to remember and keep so he could always go back to it. Sherlock had been afraid for so long that he was going to lose John in one way or another, and that these images would be the only thing he would have left to remember, now, knowing John was never going anywhere, and Sherlock knowing he was never going to leave John again either, he held onto them for the pure sentimental feeling it created when he could picture John’s face; watch the changes that have appeared across it over time- the lines around his eyes and his mouth, and the crease in his forehead that have gotten deeper, his eyes which have dulled over time, losing the beautiful blue that resided there before, and his hair, which lost it’s golden, tawny luster to give way to almost completely a dusty grey. Still a handsome face; still the face Sherlock fell in love with.

Oh; and here was John’s hands; something else he was desperate to remember the first time he had paid any real attention to them. They were small; Sherlock’s own hands could cover them twice over, but they were better than his own. John’s hands knew how to bring pain; how to hurt, how to kill if necessary, but then they also knew how to bring comfort; how to soothe and heal.  Sherlock had seen John do both on numerous occasions; was lucky enough to be on the healing side of them a few times. Fingers long, even the thumb, which is known to notoriously be short and stubby on many men; they rounded perfectly, and where they weren’t rough from years of work, from years of holding onto a rifle, they were soft and almost delicate; a stark contrast to the image John gave to the rest of the world.

And of course, in one or another drawer inside this room there would be evidence to prove that John could be soft and almost delicate as much as he could be abrasive and aggressive; That John could love, and care, and be equally be full of rage. John was a conundrum of the best sort.

He really shouldn’t have; hadn’t planned on it, but quickly the photos were dropped to the floor and Sherlock found himself winding down the last of the stairs, down a long, well lit corridor and into his bedroom of his Mind Palace. It looked a lot like his bedroom in Baker Street, though the clutter that filled it was different. Right now, John was there, lying underneath the sheets looking as he did just a few days earlier; hair mussed from kissing in the foyer, cheeks flushed from running up the stairs, and clumsily stripping layers of clothes behind him. His eyes were full of lust and anticipation. Sherlock remembered looking at him with much the same look in his own eyes; he was nearly drunk with it.

Sherlock had surrendered the second John’s hand came out to touch his chest; he remembers that feeling; doesn’t think he could ever forget it. It was like being lit on fire and settling into the flames, letting the heat creep underneath his fingernails and his toenails and travel up or down accordingly until they met somewhere in the middle, exploding into a warm, lava that kept spreading, keeping his limbs heavy and warm and pliant underneath John’s careful ministrations.

Sherlock can remember, can see right now, the moment he came back to himself, and realized that he wasn’t dreaming or creating yet another fantasy; it was real; John was real and was there. After capturing John’s lips for a brief moment, Sherlock had gone to his shoulder. He half expected John to stop him; reach down and gently grab at his chin to bring Sherlock’s head back up with a shake of his own, but John didn’t- he let Sherlock’s curiosity take over. Sherlock had inspected it; up close and near as proper as he had always wanted to. He committed its shape and texture to memory as he traced his fingers across the scar tissue, pressed his nose into it, and eventually ran his tongue around the path his fingers had taken and finished it with the press of a kiss.

John had told him, between frantic kisses down Sherlock’s neck and chest that it was the single most intimate experience he had ever experienced.

A large clap of thunder suddenly vibrated through Sherlock’s body, and it jolted him out of the room, out of his Mind Palace and back to the dim reality of the flat. The rain had kept on, turning into a true storm; a horrible, stupid storm that interrupted him. Sherlock huffed, and curled his legs up into his chest. They were stiff from being outstretched for so long, and the quick movements sent a pain up into his sciatica. Oh, how Sherlock loathed getting older. He imagined that one day his body would completely fail him, and that the thought of running, or even briskly walking all across London would be ridiculous. Sherlock imaged that one day his mind would fail him as well; something so intricate and fragile wasn’t meant to last forever. And that thought terrified him. Who would he be without his mind?

But now was not the time to start such thoughts; no matter how much the rain and the thunder and the lightning tried to pull him into it. He pushed himself up from the chair, and flitted into the kitchen. He checked the time. His stay in is Mind Palace lasted five hours and fifteen minutes; a little longer than expected, but still acceptable. Sherlock set down at the table and pulled forward a few jars of his low grade acid, and some other chemicals he knew would create an interesting reaction, a few petrie dishes and opened a new package of glass pipettes he had bought a few weeks ago, but hadn’t had the chance to use yet. He wasn’t testing anything special; he just wanted to pass the time with things he already knew, watch the micro reactions underneath his microscope and match them to what he already knew.

Three or so hours of dropping acid on nearly everything he could find, including drops of his own blood (Sherlock loved the hiss and sizzle it made, and the way the red bubbles seemed to dance before they popped), and Sherlock threw his pipette across the kitchen.  
  
  
Sherlock was bored.  
  
He made tea.  
  
It didn't taste the same as when John made it. And, they were out of milk.  
  
He thought about eating.  
  
But couldn't be bothered to prepare anything, and had no desire to answer the door for a delivery boy.  
  
A sulk would have to do.  
  
By 2100 Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore. He was nearly clawing at the furniture, just to see how the laeather would chip away and what exactly it would reveal underneath.  
  
That was it. He was going out.

A normal man, a man who wasn’t Sherlock Holmes would maybe head down to a pub, and drink away his boredom, but when Sherlock got into a cab, it wasn’t a pub that he directed the driver to go.

 

~~~

 

Sherlock tried to keep quiet while he walked through the bottom floor of the cottage looking for the stairs; they were always tucked away in the oddest of places. He supposed it was because everything else was tucked away into odd angles and corners in what was probably meant to keep up the idea of cozy comfort. For Sherlock's long, slender legs, it was just a nightmare. That was in fact on his list of reasons as to why he didn’t want to join John and Bea for their weekend in the country; that and the fact that, even though he asked, John seemed to want to spend it alone with his daughter.  
  
"For God's sake, where are the bloody stairs?" He asked out loud to himself. He really should have brought his torch.  
  
There was a creak somewhere behind and to the left of him. Sherlock turned toward it, and reached over to turn on a lamp he had bumped into. Why was the lamp so far away from the front door? Sherlock blinked his eyes against the brightness and looked toward the stairs (yes, they were in a horribly ridiculous place) to see John, ducking down on the stairs with his gun in his hands. Sherlock couldn’t help by laugh.  
  
"You brought your gun with on a weekend in the country?"  
  
John lowered the weapon, shook his head and shuffled down the stairs to meet Sherlock in the center of the living room.  
  
"I brought it in case there was a wild animal or something- you never know about things out here in the middle of nowhere. You're lucky I didn't shoot you, Sherlock. What are you doing here?" His voice sounded irritated, but the sole on his face, and the way he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist said otherwise.  
  
"I was bored."  
  
"Bored? You had the flat all to yourself to do absolutely anything your mad heart desired; how on Earth were you bored?"  
  
Sherlock was quiet.  
  
"Oh." John’s smile broadened, and he pulled himself in close to Sherlock, using his grip on his hips for leverage. It brought John's own hips into a perfect angle with Sherlock’s pelvis  
  
"You weren't bored, were you; you were lonely?"  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a stuttering scoffing sound, "don't be ridiculous; I didn't miss you."  
  
John's eyebrows quirked upwards. His smiled had taken on an air of smugness.  Damnit; that hadn't been what John said, had it? No, John said lonely. Stupid.  
  
But Sherlock supposed there was no point in taking back what he said; he had missed John. Missed him so much that he paid a cabbie an obscene amount of money to drive him all the way out there in the middle of the night, because Sherlock missed John's face; his hands, his voice, his proximity, and that stupid, adorable smile he was making right then.  
  
"Yes, alright, I missed you. I was lonely without you there to bother me."  
  
"Mmm, because you love me." Said as a statement, not a question. It had always been fact; now, it was known fact.  
  
"I suppose so." Sherlock conceded.  
  
"Well, I missed you too; because I love you."  
  
John's face had gone sarcastically soppy, and it made Sherlock laugh.  
  
"Just how many bedrooms does this cracker box have?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"Three actually."

"You're not counting that pullout sofa are you?"  
  
"Course not." John tugged on Sherlock's arm and brought him over to the stairs.

“I probably shouldn’t stay; this was supposed to be a weekend for you and Bea.”

John had started to climb the stairs, and so when he leaned in to kiss Sherlock, their lips were even with one another.

“Apricot jam.” John said as he pulled away from the gentle kiss that didn’t last nearly as long as it should have.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“When we got here, Bea and I walked into the town to get some shopping for the weekend, and she made me buy apricot jam.”

“Neither of you eat apricot jam.”

“I know.” John smiled, “She wanted to make sure you had some here in the morning for breakfast. Now, I know that sometimes you’re a genius and all, but you seem to be missing the fact that I’m trying to get you upstairs and into bed.”

Sherlock grinned, and placed his hand back into John’s to lead him up the stairs and into one of the small bedrooms.

 

~~~

 

The morning found Sherlock at the breakfast table, spreading the fresh apricot jam across his buttered toast while he watched John stand at the stove, frying up some sausage and eggs. John was dressed in an almost too right pair of jeans and a plain blue t-shirt with a white apron tied over it all. Sherlock was just in his pants and John's red cotton dressing gown. He hadn’t brought any other clothing with him, and so the trousers and button down he had changed into before leaving the flat were now in the dryer, getting the wrinkles and damp from the rain off from the fabric.

Sherlock watched John look to the clock on the wall.  
  
"I should wake up Bea." He announced more to himself really than to Sherlock.  
  
"She hasn't told you what's been bothering her."  
  
It wasn't a question. John shook his head and turned from the stove to face Sherlock, wiping his hands on a tea towel.  
  
"Don't suppose you picked up on anything?" John asked.  
  
"No. She's was completely normal last I saw her. Or as normal as I suppose a thirteen year old would act. Besides, you told me I wasn't supposed to deduce her."  
  
"Yes, but I know you do it anyhow." John sighed, "I suppose this will happen more often now. She used to call and tell me everything-I supposed it was after she told Mary, but still-"  
  
"She'll only be a teenager for five more years."  
  
John pushed away from the stove, "thank you. I feel loads better now."  
  
"I thought you might."  
  
Sherlock watched John try to figure out if he was being serious or not, and then quickly give up in favor of not caring either way, because an idea had crept into his head. Sherlock pushed his chair away from the table in anticipation of John. John slid his knee between Sherlock's, pushing them apart until John's knee hit the chair. Sherlock leaned forward and tilted his chin up to take John's lips as his own. John's hand pushed into Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock involuntarily moaned at the touch.  
  
"You know, " John started, against Sherlock's jaw, "after Mary returns and Bea goes back, you and I should come up here one weekend."  
  
"Why would we want to do that?"  
  
"To shag all day; on the couch, in the kitchen, on the stairs."  
  
"Why would we come up here to do that; we can just do that at home."  
  
"Oh, I know" John's lips were now at Sherlock's clavicle, "and we will; every day."  
  
"Everyday John; that’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?"  
  
"Every other day then."

Sherlock laughed, “Anything you want John; anything.”

He stretched his neck as John worked slow kisses against Sherlock’s pulse point, and over his adam’s apple.

"I thought you were going to wake Beatrice up" Sherlock managed to say through the barely audible moans escaping between his lips.  
  
"Mmm, I was wasn't I?"  
  
John kissed just under Sherlock’s ear and pushed himself away. Sherlock reluctantly let him go. He took another bite of his toast. The apricot was fresh, and he could taste the sweet, sticky meat from it’s inside as if he was biting into the fruit itself. He stood from his chair and refreshed his tea. Sherlock didn’t indulge himself in breakfast often, never really had. Even when he was a child, tea and toast always did him well.  
  
Sherlock sat back down, adding milk and too much sugar to his tea just as the floor creaked behind him and John came back in, Bea trailing behind him. John started plating a dish while Bea got her own tea ready. She also added milk and too much sugar, and sat down across from Sherlock. John set a plate in front of her. Sherlock looked at her. Bea was often cheery in the morning, even behind sleep addled eyes she would smile and say good morning. But her face was now painted with more than a lack of sleep, and her mouth was a frown with no hint of even a smile. She was sad; disappointed in the boy who had broken her heart, and also a little bit in herself.  
  
That wouldn't do. Sherlock could understand heartbreak; he had seen it enough times to know it skewed a person’s perspective of just about anything, and yes, perhaps he had felt himself; perhaps it had caused his own perspective to change once or twice in the past.  He would stand by and watch Bea grieve and then move on if he must; John would likely call it a learning experience. Sherlock could understand her anger and disappointment in Ian- he was angry and disappointed at most people most of the time. But Sherlock would not watch Bea, one of the wisest, kindest people, (yes people, not just a child) think less of herself because of a boy who was just stupid enough to hurt her.  
  
"Does that sound good, Sherlock?" John's voice came ringing through his ears.  
  
"What?"  
  
"The bookshop in town, and some lunch?"  
  
"Oh. Actually, I should be getting back to London."  
  
"Right now? You just got here. At least stay until after lunch if you have to go." John asked of him.  
  
"I really shouldn't. There's something I have to take care of."  
  
"Something dangerous?"  
  
Sherlock smiled. He reached over to John's plate to steal a small bite of the sausage sitting there. "Not for me."  
  
He got up once again, and pulled his clothes out from the dryer. He brought them up to the bedroom, changed and returned to John and Bea.  
  
"Don't pout." He said to John, leaning down to kiss him.  
  
"I'm not pouting” He most certainly was pouting. Sherlock found it rather endearing.

”I'll see you Monday, yea?" John asked  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I love you."  
  
"I love you too, John."

Sherlock was amazed at how those words slipped so easily from their mouths now. For years they had been built up and hidden, too dangerous to say out loud, and now, it was if they had always been spoken all along between the two of them.

 

~~~  
  
  
  
Sherlock took the train back into the city. He had to wait a while around the train station, but the journey back home was much quicker and much more satisfying. He didn’t go directly to Baker Street, but rather several blocks away, to the townhomes that Mary and Bea lived in. He paid the cabbie whom had picked him up from the train station, and passed Mary’s green door for a blue one, three units down and to the left.

He knocked.

Soon, the door opened, and just the person he was looking for was standing on the other side; confusion and a bit of terror on his face. Sherlock had not had the opportunity to meet Ian, but he could see that, as usual, his reputation exceeded him.

“May I come in?” he asked.

Ian nodded, and parted from the doorway to allow Sherlock entrance. When he was inside, he stood in the center of the living room, and took in the decor; modest, a bit vintage, but still seemed to fit well into the daily life of someone living in the 21st Century. His family was quite well off, but they weren’t showy about it; wanted to give their children a sense of humility. Sherlock picked up a small wooden ball from a bowl that seemed to randomly be filled with them, and rolled it around in his hand.

"I assume you're aware that Dr. Watson owns a firearm?" he asked.  
  
Ian didn't answer. He just swallowed, and tried not to give away that he was terrified of Sherlock.  
  
"Yes, right; you are. Well, I'm the one who lets him know when it's necessary to use it, and I’m fairly certain that any damage done to his daughter is more than a good enough reason to use it.” Sherlock put the ball back into the bowl, and stood, looking over Ian, watching the emotions on his face change, for a few seconds before speaking again.

“Lucky for you, I have a long standing policy of not shooting anyone under the age of eighteen. Though, you are rather deserving of it."  
  
"I didn't do anything she didn't want, Mr. Holmes, I swear it." Ian spoke quickly, and his voice broke between most of the words.  
  
Sherlock studied him-the boy was a bit unsure of his answer, but to all of Ian's knowledge of the situation, he was telling the truth.  
  
"But you did hurt her?"  
  
"I may have said some things to upset her when she didn't return the favor."  
  
"Right. Here's what we're going to do instead of shooting you in the knee cap. You are going to apologize to Beatrice and then, never see her again, and I mean that in the sense of you aren't even to look at her- she doesn’t exist to you anymore. Also, it would do you some good now to learn that sex is not a series of favors given and received, and I suggest you refrain from it until pleasing is more important to you than being pleased. Do you understand?"  
  
"Ye-yes, Mr. Holmes."  
  
"Good. Then I shall not tell Dr. Watson what happened. However, if I find you have broken our agreement in anyway, you should know that I have gathered enough information in the last twenty minutes to ruin the remainder of your teenaged years."

Sherlock turned on his heels, and left back through the door.  
  
It might have been a tad not good to threaten Ian the way that he did, but Beatrice Watson was his second favorite person in the world, and the first favorite to John, who of course was the only reason Sherlock's world existed anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait between updates! My husband was putting the finishing touches on a film he wrote/directed, which meant I was pretty much single mom for two weeks, and, not being used to that, had a hard time finding a good moment to get my writing done. But! I managed, finally! 
> 
> Wanted to thank all of you who have read/commented/left a kudos- I really wasn't expecting the response I've gotten to SS so far, and I appreciate all of it. I would write regardless, I'm sure, but it's much more worth it to know there is an audience.
> 
> Thanks again guys!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost done!  
> I hope you've enjoyed it, and continue to enjoy it until the end!
> 
> When this is over, and when my other WIP, With or Without You, is finished, I'm taking a break to put focus on a johnlock I have high hopes for that requires a pretty good deal of research and attention before I can even think about posting any of it.
> 
> I'm sure I'll post little things here and there though in the meantime (either here or on my tumblr)- I can't stay away!
> 
> Anyway,
> 
> Read  
> Review  
> Come back for more!

Sherlock kicked the door closed with his foot. How did John manage too do this all the time? And Sherlock only had two paper bags in his arms; John usually came back with three or four. No wonder he was always harping at Sherlock for help. Sherlock set the bags down on the kitchen counter, and started at them. Then, he stared at the cupboards and the fridge. He just carried them down two blocks and up a flight of stairs; now he had to put them away as well? Oh, he owed John something special later on that night. How exactly did one make up for two decades of never doing the shopping or the putting away? He supposed the dinner he was about to make would be a start, but he would need something more than that.

John and Beatrice had returned from the cottage three days earlier, and John had been working extra time at the clinic; catching up learning the new filing system, and going in for another doctor who had taken his vacation. The night before they had gotten into an argument about all the extra hours John was working and then coming home to a messy flat (between Sherlock and Bea), and more take away or, even worse, left over take away. So, Sherlock woke up that morning with an ambitious idea to be terribly domestic. He had been rethinking that idea since he stepped into the market.  
  
Sherlock pressed his fingers together and then pressed them against his lips in thought. He caught a glimpse of the groceries, still on the table, still in the bag. He really didn't want to go through the tedium of unpacking everything, looking for the place it fit into in the kitchen. He then realized he wouldn't have to.

Sherlock ascended the stairs towards John's bedroom, well, he supposed now it was the spare bedroom; Bea's actual room for when she came again. The door was open, so he learned in and knocked on the frame. She was sitting on the bed, leather bound journal in her hands. It only took him a second to figure out what it was: one of John's private journals. John had been keeping hand written journals since he was about ten; a young boys musings on football and Christmas presents; a teenagers thoughts on girls and his desire to join the army; a soldier's fear and loneliness; the bits and pieces of his life with Sherlock he couldn't or wouldn't put on the blog. John had over twenty five of these journals, and though he had never read or even opened a single one, Sherlock knew each one by the wear of the leather, the yellowing of the pages or the crack in the spine.  
It took just another second for Sherlock to figure out which one it was that Bea was reading, and even if he hadn't, Bea's question, once she realized Sherlock was standing there, along with the look of horror on her face let him know just what volume she was reading.  
  
"Mum shot you!?" She said in half question, half statement.  
  
Sherlock ran into the room and snatched the journal from her hands.  
  
"You are not meant to be reading this."  
  
“Dad left them out when he was moving things down to your room.”

“And that means you can read them?” Sherlock questioned.

Beatrice shrugged her shoulders, “I picked one up and it was kind of cute; from when dad was little, so I picked up a few more, and then I found this one, and-“ she shook her head, as if angry at herself for answering Sherlock’s question rather than him answering hers.

 "What about mum?" she asked again.  
  
Sherlock sighed. He had come up here to elicit help with the shopping, not tread through this mine field.  
  
"I don't really think that's something I should be telling you."  
  
"Sherlock...”  
  
"Sometimes it's best not to know everything about your parents." He tried.

  
"I already read it; I know that it happened, so, just tell me why-how."

Sherlock growled in frustration. He truly didn’t know what he should do. John didn’t want Bea to know anything about that period her parent’s life before she was born, but Bea had already read it; read something, that if not explained properly, would grow and turn into something far worse than what the truth really was, and seeing as how the truth was so terrifyingly horrible, Sherlock was afraid of what her young imagination could come up with. And, Sherlock had promised, no, he had vowed, to care for and to protect Bea for the entirety of his life. Shielding her from a truth she already half knew wasn’t protecting her. It was protecting Mary, whom he also made a vow to. It also was protecting John. John, whom he would never hurt or betray (never, ever again), or let anyone else hurt him. If Sherlock did this, it would break every promise, both spoken and unspoken he had ever made to John.

“Sherlock!” Bea repeated, angrily grasping at the ends of her hair.

“Alright, Alright! But do not tell your father- I will tell him.”

“Agreed.”

Bea moved over on the bed to make room for Sherlock. He sat down next to her, and opened the journal to where he had closed it around his thumb. How much did she know exactly? Was he going to have to explain how her mother fell in love with her father through the scope of a rifle? Did he need to tell her how if things had gone differently that morning Sherlock stood on the roof of St. Bart’s her mother would have ended her father’s life, because hers would have ended if she didn’t pull the trigger, and Beatrice wouldn’t even exist? He wasn’t prepared for that- didn’t know what he would do if he had to explain any of it.

It was a fresh entry on the top of a new page:

_After a few days now- A few agonizing days of wondering just who the fuck I am, who the fuck my wife is, Who Sherlock is, even, I have figured out...Not a damn thing. Is there even anything to figure out? Mary shot Sherlock. Full stop. She nearly killed him, and then we both sat by while he nearly killed himself, because of her. Because of me. Because of us. And I’m not even sure which ‘us’ he was fighting for._

Sherlock stopped reading; he had to. He had already read too much as it was, and he wasn’t supposed to know any of this. They were John’s thoughts; if John wanted Sherlock to know something he would tell him. He closed the journal, ran his hand over the leather and looked over to Bea who was waiting as patiently as she could.

He let out a long sigh.

“I just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Like some sodding hunting accident? I don’t think so.”

“Look, Beatrice, your mother is a lovely woman. She loves you wholly, and she loved your father very much, but even the loveliest of people can have a dark side. I don’t know what led her to need to employ the use of it in the first place, but she did.”

That was a lie. Sherlock knew exactly what had led Mary astray from her legitimate, if not grey, work in the CIA. The woman Mary was currently watching die had fallen ill for the first time, and Mary felt responsible for her treatment; felt the need to cure her; at whatever cost.

“And I don’t know exactly what it was she did...” he continued.

Another lie. Sherlock had an encrypted file tucked in the back of the drawer where he kept all of his flash drive that detailed every job she had ever taken; every kill and every failure.

“But whatever it was that she did, she left it before she met your father.”

A half lie. Mary knew who John was, but John didn’t know anything about the woman who would become his wife until Moriarty was dead, and she walked away from it all to put her rarely used healing skills to work as a nurse in John’s new clinic.

“However, she had accumulated enemies, and she was attempting to get information on herself back, so that she could move on with her life- with your dad, with you, and like I said, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time; truly.”

But he should have known. He was so concerned with the pain he had caused John after his fall, that any red flag that he had deduced from Mary was passed over in favor of making sure John was happy; happy with Mary.

Bea sat quiet; absently smoothing her hand down the front of the pyjama bottoms she hadn’t changed from the entire day. Sherlock hoped that his explanation would suffice, because he had nothing else to say on the subject to her.

“Is that why they didn’t stay together? Why dad is still angry with her?”

“He found it hard to forgive her.”

“But you did?” she asked.

“She never had any intention of shooting me.”

And that was completely true. Mary had only shot him once he had seen her for who she really was- she had to shoot him at that point; to protect herself and to protect John, and to protect the unborn child growing inside her at the time. Sherlock knew all too well the mixture of fear and confusion and absolute justification that coursed through her veins in the seconds before she pulled the trigger.

However, knowing all that didn’t mean that Sherlock was a fool. When Mary made the decision to take her shot, it was meant to kill.

“What am I supposed to do now?” Bea asked, quite obviously trying not to cry.

“I don’t know. It was a long time ago- almost fourteen years ago now. We’ve put it behind us and moved on.

“Will you tell dad soon? So that after he yells at me I can ask him more questions?”

Sherlock did not want to tell John. Ever. But he nodded in agreement anyhow.

“Now, would you come help me put away the shopping and het dinner on? Your dad will be home in near thirty minutes.”

Bea sniffled and wiped her hand at her eyes, “Yeah, sure. Can we listen to one of my playlists?”

Sherlock groaned, “Will there be insufferable boy groups on it?”

“I can play a different one if it so pleases your highness.”

“It does.”

Sherlock turned to smile at her when he reached the bottom of the steps. He was pleased to see a smile on her face as well, even if it didn’t have its usual brightness.

She clicked her ipod into the dock that was kept on the kitchen counter, and circled through to find something that wouldn’t completely offend Sherlock. He found himself pleasantly surprised by the mix of Blue Oyster Cult, Genesis, Rolling Stones and The Who.

When they had finished putting the shopping away, Sherlock set Bea to work with a knife and a cutting board, and a selection of vegetables; kohlrabi, carrots, green cabbage and purple beets. Bea thinly sliced them julienne and tossed it all into a semi shallow glass serving bowl as she was instructed, and then headed into the bathroom to take a shower before dinner. Sherlock took the chicken he had left out to thaw, and slit the breasts in half, rubbed a mixture of cilantro, lime juice and basil, closed them back up and rubbed the same mixture over the top before placing them in a shallow pan of olive oil, and water. He wrapped tin foil around the top of the pan, and slid it into the oven. He checked on the salad Bea finished putting into the bowl, and tossed the thin vegetables to mix and mingle them all together.

The chicken had started to cook enough to permeate the flat with a delicious smell by the time John made it home from the clinic. Sherlock was so immersed in mashing the baby red potatoes he had roasted earlier and sprinkling them with parmesan and fresh Italian herbs, that he didn’t hear the door close or John’s footsteps across the hardwood floor and into the kitchen. He didn’t take notice of John at all until Sherlock felt his hands slide around his waist and his lip against the back of his neck.

“Smells amazing.” John whispered.

“Me or dinner?”

“Mmmm,” John kissed the back of his neck again, “both.”

Sherlock turned, and captured John’s lips with his own. He thought that the novelty of being allowed to kiss John whenever he wanted was never going to fade away. He let John go with a lingering chase of lips.

“What exactly warrants this special occasion?” John asked, opening the cupboard to fetch the tin of tea, and seeing the other groceries that had been put away earlier.

“I was tired of take away.” Sherlock answered.

“You mean, I was tired of take away?”

“Well, yes, it just so happens you are as well.”

John laughed as he took the boiling kettle, and poured the water over his tea bag. He knew that Sherlock had made dinner for him after their argument the night before; he just would never admit something so sweet and kind to John’s face.

  
  
**~~~**

 

They ate dinner in the living room- the kitchen table not necessarily the most sanitary or clean space for eating a meal. John told them about his day, Sherlock made the appropriate snarky comments, and Bea didn’t say much of anything at all. When dinner was over she washed her plate, and immediately went upstairs to her room after kissing both John and Sherlock delicately on the top of their heads.

“Tell him please.” She whispered to Sherlock.

Sherlock watched her walk away, and shut his eyes tightly for a second. He pushed himself up from the chair, picked up their plates and dropped them into the sink.

“Do you want some tea?” he called to John from the kitchen.

“Now you’re offering to make me tea? Sherlock, what did you do?”

Sherlock came back into the living room, and stood in front of John, “I had a conversation with Beatrice tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. About Mary and when she...shot me.”

Sherlock watched the look of interest that had been on John’s face turn to anger, maybe even rage; it whitened, having drained itself of color, and then flushed completely red.

“I’m sorry, you did what now?”

“Do, I honestly need to repeat myself?”

“No, I heard you, I’m just not believing what I’m hearing. Why the fuck did you do that, Sherlock?!”

John clenched and unclenched his fists; let out a few short huffed breaths.

“I had to.”

“Why exactly was that something you had to do? You knew that I never wanted her to know- she shouldn’t know any of that.”

Sherlock knew John would be angry, and to be honest, Sherlock loved John’s temper when it got a little bit out of control, even, sometimes, when it was aimed at him, but Sherlock did not like it now, because for once Sherlock felt like he had done something wrong; something that maybe he shouldn’t have.

But, no; he didn’t. It wasn’t wrong to tell her after she asked. It wasn’t.

“When I came home today she was reading your journal. She had already read that it happened, and she deserved to know the truth of the matter after that.”

“No. No, she didn’t.”

“I didn’t tell her anything too damaging John. She has more questions, but she seemed to take it all rather well.”

“You mean nothing more damaging that finding out her mother is a psychopath?!”

“If you wrote something to that effect, I don’t believe she got that far, and I never said anything of the sort to her.”

John laughed under his breath; something low and dangerous.

“Something funny, John?” Sherlock asked.

“No. It’s just- of course you didn’t say anything unsavory about Mary. You were never angry with her, despite the fact that you should have been.”

“I’ve never felt the need to harbor anger toward someone just because they made a mistake. With the amount of mistakes normal people make I would have a grudge with everyone I ever met.”

“A mistake?!”

“That’s what it was!”

Sherlock had been trying to keep his voice even and low, but they had had this argument so many times for so many years, and he didn’t understand why it kept coming up.

“She was only protecting herself; protecting you! Would I not be one of those hypocritical people you hate so much if I was angry at her, because she wanted to protect you?”

“SO, because she did it t protect me, I should just forgive her then? I should have just swept it under the rug that you nearly died- again?!”

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air; this was getting ridiculous, “For God’s sake! You’re still not over that either?”

“’I’ve moved on from it, but I will never be ‘over’ it, Sherlock. I shouldn’t be expected to be ‘over’ it.”

“And that’s your problem- you hold onto everything, and you let it sit there until you’re doing exactly what you’re doing now with your lips twitching, and your fists clenching so tight until your knuckles go white, and you start bringing up stupid issues.”

“Yes, because my daughter knowing that her mother shot her father’s boyfriend is stupid; you letting me think you were dead for three years is stupid!”

John punched his fists down onto the table sitting next to his chair, and stood there with his chest heaving; not noticing the blood that was tricking down over his fingers.

“John-“ Sherlock crossed over to him, and placed his hands firmly on either side of John’s face. He fought a little, but Sherlock only held tighter.

“It’s not stupid.” John told him, his anger beginning to crack into something else.”

“No, it’s not stupid.” Sherlock dropped his hands and let John pull him into a full embrace.

“What am I supposed to do now?” he asked.

“Answer her questions; tell her the truth.”

“And have her disappointed in us for the rest of her life?”

“Beatrice is very intelligent. I think she’ll understand better than you believe she will.”

John sighed, “And what am I supposed to do about the other thing I can let go of?”

Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head, “Remember that I’m not going anywhere ever again; not without you.”

“Do you promise me that?”

“I promise.”

They stood there, just holding onto each other. Sherlock never gave comfort; it wasn’t something he knew how to do, but he knew that sometimes, when he needed it, just being in John’s presence, just feeling his arms around him or feeling his breath against his shoulder; feeling John’s chest rise up and down against his own, was al the comfort that he needed, so Sherlock did his best to just hold on for as long as John needed him to.


	9. Chapter 9

There was a creaking sound behind them. Sherlock wondered how long it would take Bea creep down from where she had been sitting on the stairs since almost the moment she had gone up to bed.

"I didn't mean to make you argue." she said, her voice small as she cautiously approached where John and Sherlock stood.  
  
"Beatrice..." John said, slowly and a bit dark. Sherlock had heard that tone directed at him many times before. It was different than the rage that could fly through his voice when he was angry; this was more a mix of disappointment and ire.   
  
"I'm sorry dad. I shouldn't have read any of it, but-"  
  
"No, Beatrice, you shouldn't have. Those are my private thoughts, meant for just me; not even your mum or Sherlock."  
  
"I know-I know" she said quickly, almost pleading, but for what Sherlock wasn't sure.  
  
John left Sherlock's side, and walked over to Bea. He took her hand and led her over to his chair to sit down; John took Sherlock's.  
  
"Well, now that you have- what questions do you want to ask?  
  
Sherlock sat down on the couch, curled his feet underneath himself, and watched as John answered all of the questions that Bea threw at him. Most of them were repeats of what she asked Sherlock- looking for someone else's perspective, and some John didn't have an answer for; some were things only Mary could know. Sherlock started to think, as he listened to John explain as gently as he could how Mary hadn't been the woman he married- how he didn't know what he should have known in order to be someone's husband- that maybe knowing all of your parents dark secrets wasn’t the best thing for a child. Sherlock tried to think about when he was Beatrice’s age; if he would have been able to understand and move on with detrimental information about his mum and dad. Even he could; Sherlock wasn’t sure he would want to know anyhow. Parents are a fixed point in your life; human, but not; their lives before their children’s existence a secret to you, and a memory to them.

Sherlock started to nod off- it was rather late, and John’s voice was always so soothing when he was tired, but another question that had been forming in Bea’s mind was given voice, and it piqued Sherlock’s interest.  
  
"But you really left here because you were in love with Sherlock, right?"  
  
Sherlock shifted his feet. He felt John's eyes dart over to him, and Sherlock tried not to show actually show any of his interest in what John's answer might be.  
  
"Did you read that?" He asked, looking back to his daughter.  
  
Bea nodded.  
  
"I was angry with her, there is no doubt about that, but there's a possibility that I used the events as a catalyst to be with him"  
  
The corner of Sherlock's lip twitched up for a fraction of a second. It was data that he already knew, from the moment John had moved back in to Baker Street during Sherlock's recovery. Though, John did eventually leave to go back to his pregnant wife, but Sherlock knew that was only out of John's strong, if not endearing and ridiculous sense of duty- -staying with Sherlock had been done out of sentiment.  
  
"Did you ever love mum?" Bea asked.  
  
"Yes, and I still do, but like I think we've told you before- some people just are better off without each other."  
  
"Right." Bea twisted her hair around her finger, and looked up at John. There were still questions in her eyes, but she seemed to be choosing not to ask anymore.  
  
"Better now?" John asked.  
  
Bea shrugged her shoulders, "maybe after I talk to mum.”

“Yes; I’m sure she’ll be looking forward to that.” John stood up from the chair, and reached his hand out for Bea to take, “Back to bed now.”

Bea grabbed at him and allowed John to lift her from the chair and walk with her back upstairs. Sherlock leaned his head against the back of the couch, closed his eyes. Getting older unfortunately meant that he actually had to succumb to the tedium of sleep more often than he wanted to. He was just about to stand and bring himself to bed when John’s phone began to vibrate against the table where he had left it. Sherlock looked to the screen; Mary’s name with an old photo of her holding their newborn daughter; sentiment. Sherlock wondered for a moment what picture John had set for when Sherlock called him; there weren’t many in existence that Sherlock knew of.

He pushed the thought aside with a shake of his head, and sighed as he reached for John's phone; sliding his finger across the smooth glass to answer  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Sherlock?" Mary's voice on the other side was surprised to hear his voice, "uh, is john there?"  
  
"He's upstairs getting Bea back to bed."  
  
"Oh, is she alright?"  
  
"Yes." There really was no need to worry her, "just had a hard time sleeping.  
  
"Ahh. Well, when you see him again, could you just let him know I'll be home aft the end of week? They're moving Kathy into a hospice, and it seems she doesn't want me to see the very last days." Mary laughed a little sadly, "She isn't exactly the kind of woman you argue with."  
  
"I'll let him know."  
  
"Thank you Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock hung up when it was obvious the conversation was finished. He knew that Mary didn’t enjoy speaking him, and was likely even more uncomfortable by the fact that Sherlock had just answered John’s phone in the middle of the night. He turned the light off in the living room, continuing with his earlier plan of going to bed. He left the light on in the kitchen for when John came down, and went into the bedroom.

He undressed to his pants and got into the bed.  
  
It wasn't long before he heard John's footsteps down the stairs, heard his feet shuffle into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face and hands. The door that connected bathroom and bedroom opened and Sherlock watched John undress himself, replace jeans with pyjama bottoms and crawl into the other side of the bed. John lay on his back, hands clasped atop his chest, and stared up at the ceiling.  
  
"I'm sorry." John said.  
  
"Whatever for?"  
  
"You did what you had to do, and it was- -it was good, Sherlock."  
  
"What exactly is it that you're referring to?"  
  
John turned over to face Sherlock, lying on his side, "Everything you've ever done. You always do the right thing, no matter how difficult, and I always over react- I'm always angry at you, and I shouldn't be, so, I'm sorry."  
  
"Apology accepted, John."  
  
Sherlock opened his arm to let John slide in to the space against Sherlock's side, his head resting on his shoulder. Sherlock kissed the top of John's head; told him about his conversation with Mary.  
  
"Guess we'll have to plan something fun for her then." John said.  
  
"I'll leave that up to you. Otherwise we'll end up on the Victorian murder tour again."  
  
John laughed, "I actually enjoy that tour. You always get so worked up over it- it leaves you looking quite sexy."  
  
"Hmm, perhaps we'll have to go again, now that we're a couple- see what happens when we get home."  
  
"Yes. I think we should."  
  
Sherlock absently traced his thumb along the skin of John's arm and shoulder. He hadn't known before, though he always suspected, but lying with John, feeling their skin together, hearing John's breath- was the only thing Sherlock would ever need again. Surrendering to John, to his heart and the want of his body wasn't nearly as terrifying as Sherlock thought it would be. It was wonderful, perfect- better than The Work, though only by a fraction, and Sherlock would never give him up.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end.
> 
> I could have done more, likely, but I lost steam, and I didn't want to drag something out just for the sake of dragging it out, ya know?
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, left a kudos or a comment.  
> I am so glad that you enjoyed what I had to say :)

Epilogue

 

It was sunny; warm. There was a slight breeze that tickled at the bottom of dresses and pushed hairs out of their place, but there was no rain; not a gray cloud in sight, and that was what was most important as a celebration occurred in the backyard garden of the Lestrade’s newly acquired country home.

Beatrice stood behind a long, rectangular table; smile spread wide across her face, and tapped a butter knife against her glass full of sparkling champagne. She waited for the the fifty or so guests to hush their conversations and turn their attention to her, before she spoke.

"I've listened to a lot of you congratulate me today, and I appreciate it very much- -Paul and I both appreciate it very much. But the only thing I did was show up and wear this pretty dress. If you want to congratulate anybody; my parents deserve all of it, because they led me here’ they’ve led me everywhere I ever gone.  
  
"Mum-“ Bea raised her glass in Mary’s direction at the table in front of her, “you are beautiful- - far more beautiful than I can ever hope to be, and I don't just mean your physical beauty- your soul is beautiful. You are so strong, and so forgiving, and I will always try to live up to your image in every aspect of my marriage and my life.  
  
"Dad, no little girl would be anywhere without her daddy, and I'm no different. You have taught me how to never give up, how to be brave even when I really don't want to be, and I’ve chased most of my dreams because of your determination in me; because of the determination in myself.  
  
"And, Sherlock-" Bea stopped for just a moment to lick her lips and enjoy the look of surprise that crossed over his face, and the faces of most of the guests who had been ready to drink their champagne and move on.  
  
"When I was younger I used to think that every family had a Sherlock. And when I was ten, and finally realized I was the only one, I felt bad for them-really, I did, because Sherlock," she turned her attention directly back to him, "you are the most loving, selfless person I have and likely ever will know. And I will not let my new husband leave tonight without properly thanking you, because you have taught me how to love another person with my entire heart.  
  
I love you all very much."

She took a drink from her glass, and quickly sat back down; her eyes leaving a smile on Sherlock’s face.

  
  
There was no formal dinner; just delicious appetizers and drinks. John sat next to Sherlock, his hand resting on the dark haired mans knee as they watched Beatrice share a kiss with her husband. John still wasn’t sure exactly how it all happened. One day she was home in London after a two week tour with the ballet company; making Spanish stew and home made yeast rolls. The next, she was calling from Prague saying she was going to be married.  
  
The wedding arrangements had been mad. Bea wanted something small, something intimate for only the eyes of the people that mattered most to her and John's new son-in-law. If the permanent smile on her face was any indication, it had all come together just right for her.  
  
John took notice of his hand moving up and down with Sherlock knee as Sherlock’s foot tapped against the grass in time with the music.  
  
He grinned, "Sherlock, would you like to dance?"  
  
"What? No-don't be ridiculous."  
  
"Why is that ridiculous? I know you enjoy dancing."  
  
"Who would lead?" Sherlock asked  
  
John stood up and reached down for Sherlock's hand. With some effort, he pulled the stubborn man to his feet, "you, of course."  
  
John led Sherlock across the crisp, green garden and onto the dance floor that had been placed the night before. He opted to let his want to be close to Sherlock win, and placed both his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock followed suit, placing his arms tentatively around John's waist. The last time John had danced with Sherlock was ages ago, in the privacy of their flat, which at that time had once again only been Sherlock's, as Sherlock taught John to waltz for his wedding.  
  
John thought now, about how both of their hearts were breaking a little bit then, but he didn’t make mention of it.  
  
"Did you put the bills in the post before we left?" John asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Did you really?"  
  
"I may have forgotten." Sherlock said with a wave of his hand from against John’s waist.  
  
"Sherlock, our electric bill was already passed due. It will be off by the time we get home."  
  
"Why was it late?"  
  
"Because you burned all the cheques to start a fire, and I had to wait for new ones to arrive."

Sherlock nodded his head slowly, as if he was remembering the moment.  
  
"I have fingers in the fridge." He then said.  
  
"Our fridge? You're supposed to keep those in the basement."  
  
"They wouldn't fit."  
  
"What the hell do you have down in that fridge that you couldn't fit a bag of fingers?"  
  
Sherlock grinned.  
  
"Never mind” John said,  “I don't want to know."  
  
  
"Would you mind if I stole your husband for a bit?"  
  
Mary's vice came over the music as she meant in close to Sherlock ear. Sherlock smiled and let go of John to step away.  
  
"Only fair if you do, yes?" He joked.  
  
Mary smiled, "I promise to give him back to you."  
  
Sherlock leaned in to kiss Mary on the cheek before leaving her with John. John and may feel into a more formal stance as they moved width the music, but still comfortable with one another.

“Not my husband.” John said to her.

“Well, I’m certinaly not going to call him your ‘boyfriend’- not at your age, and he doesn’t correct me when I do it.” A sly smile spread across her face.

John rolled his eyes. He and Sherlock didn’t talk about marriage for themselves; John assumed that it was something Sherlock wasn’t interested in; especially after he spent months telling Bea that a piece of paper and a party wasn’t going to change the love she and Paul had for each other; it wasn’t going to make it better or more official or anything like that; they were the ones that should and could define their love. And John was okay with not being married to Sherlock; he had everything he needed just living in sin with the mad man; defining their love the way they seemed fit.  
  
"Can you believe today?" John asked after a beat of silence.  
  
"Not in the least. I still remember marveling at her learning to walk or a new word."  
  
"Do you remember when she learned 'murder'?"  
  
Mary laughed loudly, throwing her head back, "she used to roll over in bed with me and whisper it with a terribly creepy smile."  
  
John joined in on her laughter. As it died out, they both went quiet, until Mary spoke again as she put a hand up to John's cheek, "We did alright, yea?"  
  
"With Bea?"  
  
Mary nodded.  
  
"I should say that we did. You've always been a wonderful mother, Mary."  
  
"Just not a wonderful wife."  
  
"Not for me anyhow."  
  
Mary looked fondly to where Sherlock was standing watching the two of them, "Bit foolish of me to think I could compete with Sherlock Holmes."  
  
"You certainly came the closest to beating him."  
  
"Helped a bit that he was dead, huh?"  
  
John laughed, "A bit."  
  
He bent his head down to chastely kiss Mary's lips before she settled her head down on his shoulder, and John pulled her in a bit closer.

  
  
From the other side of the garden, as Sherlock watched, with a glass of champagne in his hands, he felt Bea slide up next to him, the width of her ivory ball gown ticking at his black trousers.  
  
"I meant it, you know?" She said, watching her father dance with her mother as Sherlock did rather than look at him.  
  
"I should say that you did; your parents are wonderful people." He turned to her quickly with a grin, "as am I"  
  
"Yes, Sherlock, you are."  
  
Quiet, and then; "Are you disappointed in me?""  
  
"Why would you even think to ask me that, Beatrice?"  
  
"I could have done anything I put my mind to with my marks, but I didn't do anything- I chose dance, because it was in my heart. Then, I marry before my twenty first birthday, because my heart told me not to let him go. You must be disappointed in how I've let sentiment run my life."  
  
Sherlock steepled his fingers underneath his chin, and started off into the distance before letting out a long breath.  
  
"Well," he said slowly, "you are a beautifully talented dancer, and I believe Paul loves you as much as you love him. So, I would say that your choices in life have so far, turned out well, even if you have been following your heart rather than your head.  
  
My objections to sentiment have always been because I only experienced the pain and sacrifice caring and loving causes- -"  
  
"Until you fell in love with dad?"  
  
An amused smile escaped from Sherlock, "Especially after I fell in love with your father. It wasn't until he fell in love with me that I understood the good bits."  
  
Another slow song had ended and suffering more upbeat began to play. Mary and John parted ways with one another, and Sherlock caught John's eyes while he made his way over to where Sherlock stood with Bea.  
  
"Sharing secrets over here?" John asked, kissing Bea on the cheek before standing on the other side of Sherlock.  
  
"Something like that." Sherlock answered. He took John's hand in his own; interlacing their fingers so he could trace patterns along John's knuckles. They stood like that for a while; the three of them underneath a blossoming tree; just watching. Eventually Beatrice was taken away by her new husband. She left kisses on both John and Sherlock's cheek before she allowed herself to be swept away. The two men, now alone, stayed just where they were; holding hands.  
  
"Pigs." Sherlock said breaking their silence  
  
"Sorry?" John turned his head to look at Sherlock; confused.  
  
"In my fridge; I have whole pigs from the butcher. I need to run some skin experiments and Molly wouldn't let me take a whole body home."  
  
"I should hope not."  
  
"She's head of the department; not like she has have to answer to anyone for it being gone. And I would have taken a John do; not anybody someone would be missing.”  
  
John shook his head, "Are you ever going to tire of these experiments, Sherlock?"  
  
"I doubt it. Unless, you'll allow me to start bee keeping."  
  
"Not likely. Not in the flat at least."  
  
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, not affronted by John's rejection of the bee keeping.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes, John?"  
  
"I love your experiments."  
  
"I know."  
  
"And Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes, John?"  
  
"I love you."  
  
Sherlock smiled and squeezed John's hand, "I know."

 

 


End file.
